


Allongé

by makopls, TearoomSaloon



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And by loosely I mean the only similarity is Imperial would suck Balanchine's dick, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Imperial and Skywalker are loosely based on the NYC Ballet and the American Ballet Theater, Slow Burn, This is set in New York, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makopls/pseuds/makopls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/TearoomSaloon
Summary: “Well, you’re new.” He didn’t start with a normal human greeting. “Young, nervous, and not supposed to be here.”“But I am here. And so are you.”“Unwillingly. My first performance after becoming a danseur noble and it’s at a different company with a soloist.”She narrowed her eyes, trying to not let him get the best of her. “Have you warmed up yet? Or are you so good you don’t need to stretch first?"Story by TearoomSaloonArt by makopls





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sup folks, Tearoom here. I'm the writing behind this fic, Mako is the art and ballet nitpicking/editing.
> 
> This is a collaborative effort between Mako and me. This will be easy for a layman to follow, with Easter eggs thrown in for the balletomanes.  
> You can find us both on tumblr at [tearoomsaloon](http://tearoomsaloon.tumblr.com/) and [makopls](http://makopls.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Mako is pretty much the whole knowledge base behind the scenes, and you should definitely check out her work, it's gorgeous!  
> All art is by Mako unless otherwise specified!
> 
> Bear with me on the slow burn, it's gonna take a while to really heat up but I promise it'll be worth it
> 
> We will be posting weekly on either Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.

  
oh man I hope you don't expect this anytime soon

* * *

 

It happened in slow motion, the colliding of bodies. Paige misjudged her jump, Poe underestimated the angle, and they both went down, a hard _crack_ resonating across the stage. Rey winced watching it, the way Poe’s ankle twisted, how hard of an elbow Paige took to the ribs, the look of panic and pain that spread across both their faces.

Leia, out in the house, swore. “Don’t either of you try that again. Poe, ass to the ground, I shouldn’t have to tell you not to get up.” She went up the aisle, through one of the backstage doors, and walked briskly to center stage. “Now, what hurts?”

“Breathing,” Paige said with a hiss.

“My ankle and my back.” Poe tried to sit up, but stopped when he caught Leia’s glare.

“We are less than seven days from open,” she sighed. “Can someone please call an ambulance? Kaydel—stop texting, that’s you.”

What happened next was a scramble. Luke came back from the restroom to find his dancers out of commission, someone got Chewie to help Poe stand, and panicked voices climbed up to the ceiling, filling the air over the stage. Rey continued to sit in a wing, eyes wide as the mess spread out in front of her like an unfurling map.

Both the injured dancers were looked over by the arriving medical team. Paige would need x-rays to see if she’d cracked a rib and Poe needed an MRI to check for ligament damage. He was pissed, Paige was worried, and Leia was tired.

It took about a half hour for the ruckus to calm down. Leia called the remains of the company to the stage and stood with hands folded in front of her lips. With a deep breath, she lowered them. “I guess casting Paige as a bird was a good idea. She really flew.”

The tension eased as giggles traveled through the group. Rey herself chuckled, seated towards the back of the stage with a few girls in the corps.

“The good news is the EMTs didn’t think either of them sustained any serious or permanent injuries. The bad news, we’re too close to opening night to move it back, not to mention we already pushed the date once. With half our lineup overseas, we're in a bit of a tight spot when it comes to replacements. Didn’t we have understudies for this show?” Leia’s gaze turned towards Finn.

“I stopped learning Poe’s part when you moved me to Koschei.”

“Rey, aren’t you the backup Firebird?”

Rey nodded, not quite processing the words. Paige was out—she was in.

“That’s at least one down. Was Poe really the only one preparing Ivan?”

There were murmurs, nothing more. Only Paige’s role had an understudy, mostly because Luke wanted Rey to work on techniques, not because he thought she was fit for a lead role. They were down to a newly minted soloist and…empty space.

“Well, shit.” Leia clapped her hands. “Take five, everyone.”

Rey stood and took an uneasy, staggered breath before searching out Finn. He was in the back with one of the stage technicians, Rose. They were talking in tight voices, low and out of sight. He looked up when she approached.

“Well, how do you feel?”

“Nervous.” She smoothed out her skirt. “We were still working on my lifts the last time I practiced with Poe.”

"You're not done learning those?”

“No. We really didn't have a lot of time since Paige was learning too and Poe was doing the matinee show up until last week. I really hope his stand in isn't much taller.” She turned to Rose. “How's she doing?”

“All right. Not great. We'll know more in a few hours.” She was fiddling with the hem of her shirt, anxious. Rey would be too if it had been her sister who took the fall.

“Man, as if we weren't already screwed with this show.” Finn shook his head. “Over budget, understaffed, half the company is in Europe, the rest of the other half is already knees deep in other performances.”

Rey nodded. “We're more than stretched thin.”

“At this point, I think we're see-through.”

“Rey?” Leia was approaching from the backstage door, the stress already showing on her face. “Chewie needs you for final measurements, we have to get up and running as soon as possible.”

With a quick goodbye to Finn and Rose, she made her way down to the basement of the theater. Chewbacca was master of the needle and thread, a transplant from the Bolshoi years and years ago. Tall, hairy, and impossible to understand through his heavy accent, he was one of Rey's favorite people at Skywalker. He greeted her before quickly whipping out a measuring tape.

Most of her Firebird costume had already been drafted, but not fully sewn. There wasn't much point of putting in the full effort if she weren't going to be dancing in it. Now that she was, however, she was more than a little excited to see how the feathers and embroidery would look. She would be using the same headpiece as Paige, but everything else needed to be finished.

“Ees beek role,” Chewie said when he had her move her arms. “Exciting, yes?”

“And a little nerve-racking. Am I getting a train or a tutu?”

“Up to you.”

“Train.” She didn’t like how stiff Paige’s tutu had been during the more languid moments of her choreography.

Leia was back to fetch her just as Chewie had begun to pull fabrics. “I know this is going to be a massive pressure on you,” she said, stopping at an alcove in the basement hallway. “Do you think you’re ready?”

Rey nodded. “I’ve soloed before, just never as a lead. We’ve got a week, I think I’ll have time.”

“Your body language doesn’t match your words.”

“I’m extremely nervous.” She dropped her shoulders and hugged her arms around her waist. “What if I fall?”

“Have you fallen in rehearsal?”

“Well, _no_ —”

“What makes you think you’ll fall now?”

“Paige fell after two months of practice. Why can’t I fall during a performance?”

"Because you’ve been trained better than that, and you know it. Look,” Leia softened, taking her hands. “I remember my first lead performance. I was riddled with nerves and scared I’d forget my part. I don’t know why I thought I could, having spent most my daily hours practicing, but I wasn’t immune to fear. It’s normal—natural—to be nervous the first time you do something like this. Channel it as best you can. I don’t think we made an error having you study under Paige, and I know you’ll prove me right.”

“Thank you.” Rey nodded. “I know I'll be fine.”

“Good, now let's see go see my brother. We need to get you refreshed, even if we don't have an Ivan at the moment.”

She followed the director up the stairs and down the hall to the room she and Luke shared as a makeshift office. He was frowning with his arms over his chest, a list of names scrawled out on a chalkboard, half crossed off.

“We moved Finn a month ago and never had someone fill his place,” Leia said as she went to stand beside her brother. “What are you thinking?”

“Most of the companies in the area have shows going up in the next week or two, so swapping guest principals is out.”

“Take Hux’s name off; no way in any hell that’s happening.”

Luke moved to slash a line through it.

“We don’t have the budget for any of the leftovers. I allocated money for bonuses and they’ve all been working their rear ends off. It’ll feel like cheating to take from there.”

“What other choice do we have?”

Leia turned back to Rey, who was standing awkwardly behind. “Don’t parrot anything you hear.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

The twins mulled a few minutes more before Leia swore under her breath and made her way to her desk, taking out one of the many binders from the bottom drawer. She flipped open to a tabbed section and Luke sighed.

“Don’t call in any favors before we know we need one.”

“I thought it might help to know who owes us before we go blindly around asking for a spare principal dancer.”

Rey felt their anxiety crawl on her skin, the demanding need to find someone to learn Poe’s part taking up all the space in the room. _The Firebird_ wasn’t one of the most danced ballets, and finding someone already familiar with the core choreography would be helpful but near impossible.

There was a rap at the open door.

“I thought I’d find you two back here. Poe texted to ask me if I could—what’s up with the chalkboard?”

“We’re replacing Poe.” Leia turned to face the newcomer. “Poe wanted you to what?”

“Pick up some things in his locker. Like his clothes.” Kylo Ren frowned. “I thought you’d have the master key.”

Leia, frustrated, reached for her lanyard, finagling the large silver key with a purple tag off the hoop. “Don’t dunk his shoes in the toilet again.”

“We were ten. You still remember that?”

Rey watched as the Imperial Ballet’s _danseur noble_ crossed the floor to take the outstretched key. He was taller and far broader than she’d pictured him, the movement of his body beyond graceful. She’d only seen him in promotional pictures and interviews; it was strange to see him in the flesh, wearing street clothes and black patent loafers.

“What ballet are you doing again?”

“ _The Firebird_.”

“Poe was…Koschei?”

“Ivan.” Something sparked in Leia’s eyes and she flipped her book to a different page, much to Kylo’s unease. “You owe me a favor.”

“No—”

“You did _Firebird_ three years ago as Ivan, and you owe me for wrecking your father’s Mustang.”

“That was forever ago.”

“You still haven’t paid me back.”

He gave her a black look.

“You’re between shows.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“I’ll call Hux.”

Kylo snorted. “He will _definitely_ not do it.”

“He will if I say it’ll put you more in debt.”

Snarling, he looked about ready to put his fist through a wall—which Rey had no doubt he could do, his arms bigger around than her calves. He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. I do this for you, and we’re even. You don’t call me for anything else.”

“Deal.”

“I’ll have our costume department send my measurements.” He turned on his heel with the key.

“One more thing before you go.”

He stopped. “Yes?”

“After you've brought Poe his stuff, come straight back here. Bring shoes and whatever else you need.”

With a nod, he left soundlessly down the hall, disappearing like a dream.

When he was out of earshot, Luke turned to his sister. “I really wish you’d have let me know you were going to do that ahead of time.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if he hadn’t shown up. Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Yeah, a sign we’ll all be ready to kill him at the end of this week. Have you read the interviews with dancers from his company? Don’t you remember what it was like? No one can tolerate working with him.”

“We’re not spending money, he knows the part. I think it’s a win-win. But,” she turned to Rey. “He won't be patient with you. Don't take it personally; he's never patient with anyone.”

She blinked. “He's going to be my partner?”

“Unfortunately,” Luke said.

Leia caught Rey’s nervous glance. “He’s a pain in the ass, but he won't let you fall.”

This was an even bigger thing to get her brain around. First, Paige fell and she was taking the lead role for opening night. Next, Poe fell and was being replaced with Kylo Ren. She would be opposite him, possibly the biggest name in ballet at the moment; a technical genius recently awarded the title of _noble_. She was barely a _soloist_.

The first thing she did when her meeting with the twins ended was locate Finn. Reality had begun to creep into her nerves and god, if she weren’t scared before, she was scared now. She took his hands in hers, panic clear across her features.

“Kylo Ren.”

Finn made a face. “What about that asshole?”

“He’s replacing Poe.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Leia fetched me to plan out how my rehearsals would go from now until next Wednesday and he came to get stuff for Poe.”

“Of course Poe texts _him_ , not me.”

“Why did he?”

“They've been friends since before Kylo used to dance here.”

 She frowned. “He used to dance _here?_ ”

“Yeah, he’s Leia’s son. I thought you knew.”

This was too much to take in at once. It was one thing to be dancing with him; it was another to learn he was the director's son, who happened to dance at a different, far wealthier company. And he was a star. And he was ballet royalty. And he was apparently hell to work with.

“What was dancing for Imperial like?”

“Long hours, good pay, and soul crushing routine. I don't think I was ever home for a single holiday.”

“That doesn’t sound very glamorous.”

“It wasn’t.”

“What was working with him like?”

“Well…” Finn took his hands back, thinking. “He was always a principal dancer. No one could compete with him if he wanted a role. Hux tried but was rarely successful. The girls he danced with either came out of rehearsal crying or spitting mad.”

She recoiled. “Why let him dance at all if he can’t play nice?”

“Because he’s the best. He keeps to himself otherwise. Don’t talk to him and you should be fine.”

Right, don’t talk to the guy who was going to be hoisting her into the air. Great plan.

 

She was sick with anxiety for a half hour before Kylo showed up again. He had changed his clothes to a pair of charcoal joggers and an Imperial t-shirt, which got a side-eye and a huff from Leia. She ushered both him and Rey into one of the back practice rooms.

“She needs to work on the lifts. Don’t drop her, or you’ll wish I dropped you as a baby.”

“Are you saying that as my director or as my mother?”

“Both.”

He rolled his eyes. “I think I’ve got it.”

She shot her son one last glare before departing, having to round up the corps for more practice.

“Well, you’re new.” He didn’t start with a normal human greeting. “Young, nervous, and not supposed to be here.”

“But I am here. And so are you.”

“Unwillingly. My first performance after becoming a _danseur noble_ and it’s at a different company with a _soloist_.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to not let him get the best of her. “Have you warmed up yet? Or are you so good you don’t need to stretch first.”

 No, no, he had done that already, leaving Rey to warm up awkwardly on her own as he looked on. She’d gotten tense in the past hour and a half, all the stress and lack of movement tightening her hamstrings.

She got halfway through her routine before he interrupted her. His hands were on her, twisting her around much the way her coaches had done for years. “You look like a plane coming in for a landing.” He pushed her chest up, his hand grazing too closely to her breasts. “You’ll topple over like that. And you’re worried about me making you fall?”

Her face was on fire. “You can’t just _touch_ me like that!”

“Then who’s going to correct you?”

“I don’t need your assistance, I just need you to dance with me.”

He scoffed. “You’re lucky we’re not at my company or you’d be replaced again in a heartbeat.”

“Because I’m not good enough?”

“To dance with me? No, not even close.”

And she wasn’t. He was miles and miles above Poe, far better than any other dancer she’d seen this close. His technique was impeccable—close to flawless—and he had to stop every few minutes to give her a lecture. Her shoes were too heavily shanked (he made it very clear he detested Gaynor Mindens), she didn’t turn the proper way, and she sprang up onto pointe when she should have been rolling through. Absolutely nothing she did was good enough.

At the very least, he didn’t drop her in the lifts. His hands burned against her though, like the irritated itching of a ribbon tied on too long. Graceful, always, to his last bitter word. Her false idea of him withered quickly. She’d expected him to be quiet and patient from the way everyone spoke about him. Instead, he was nit-picky, rude, and had the sharpest mouth she’d seen. She felt about ready to leave in tears by the time he’d finished reprimanding every single thing she did.

He disappeared when he was satisfied, or as satisfied as he could be with her ‘unsatisfactory’ performance. No word as to when he’d be back next, no exchange of numbers in case there was an empty space in the early morning to work. Nothing. He just picked up his bag and walked out.

Rey sat beside Finn on the half-empty subway home, head stuck in her hands. “What am I doing here?”

“Don’t let him get to you. Whatever he says, don’t let it get to you.”

“Easy to say, hard to do.”

 

Not letting it get to her proved easier than expected. Mostly because he wasn’t there, at all. Days of rehearsal went by without so much as a stuck-up hint of Kylo Ren. Rey was in and out of costumes, from gauzy skirts for _La Sylphide_ to red feathers and a long train for _Firebird_. Her head was reeling by the end of each day, so many steps and musical cues crammed into her brain. Luke had to fill in the role of Ivan, helping with everything up to the lifts. It wasn’t helping her nerves, such a large part of the routine still so shaky this close to the opening performance.

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea,” she overheard Luke saying Wednesday evening as they wrapped for the night. “He’s not reliable and expects everyone else to cater to him. He’s not even performing right now, is he?”

Leia looked away. “No, he’s not.”

“So where the hell is he?”

“Here.”

Several of the corps turned to the sound of the stage left door. Dressed in loose clothing and sneakers, Kylo looked as though he’d stumbled out of a tabloid, like a celebrity caught on a milk run in a tracksuit and bug-eyed shades. He had a bag slung over one shoulder, a coffee in hand, and a look on his face that screamed of malicious compliance.

"So nice of you to show up, finally.” Luke gave him a once over. “After we’ve shut down for the day.”

“I have spare keys and don’t need to practice on stage.”

That didn’t sit easy with Rey. “Leia, _I_ would feel more comfortable—”

“Grab your stuff, we’re going upstairs.”

He disappeared out the door again before she could object. With a groan, Rey gathered up her things and hurried after him, crossing the sky bridge to the studios with annoyance in her step. She found him in one of the least-used rooms in the back of the sprawling building. The windows on the side made it difficult in the daylight, glare bouncing off the mirrors. At night, the lights from the city cast a hazy, dim mood in the space, making it feel almost liminal.

He stripped off his sweatpants and sat down to wrestle with his shoes.

“Those look…expensive.”

“They’re Freeds. We all wear Freed of London. There’s something to be said about the uniformity of a company, which neither my mother nor uncle believe in.”

“Are you going to turn on the lights?”

“No, I prefer this room for the darkness of it. If you can dance it blind, you’re ready to dance it on stage.”

That didn’t sound right.

Plugging his phone into the room’s sound system, he approached, his eyes cutting. “Do you think you know what you’re doing?”

Not especially, no. When she heard her cue, she was off, a bird twisting effortlessly away from her captor. They drilled over and over, restarting each time she faltered or stumbled. The sun broke across the room before they finished. He vanished without a word, out the door before she’d even gotten her shoes off. Rey was exhausted, truly, and retreated to the lounge in the theater’s backrooms to get an hour or two of sleep before her Thursday began.


	2. Chapter 2

“You did _what?_ ”

It was the calmness in the tone that worried Kylo more than the bite or the glare. He had been waiting all week to break the news to his director that he would be guesting at Skywalker. Telling Snoke the day before opening meant he couldn’t prevent Kylo from filling in without stepping on Leia’s toes. Though Skywalker was barely competition, it would be seen as bad etiquette to sabotage them, or deny them a favor.

Snoke was nothing if not old manners and cold perfection from his years under Balanchine. He’d sooner fire Kylo than garner bad press.

“I owed her a favor, thought it best I pay my debt now than wait any longer.” Kylo swallowed, watching the gears in Snoke’s mind grind behind his gaze. “I’m not performing in any of our ballets at the moment, so I’m not dodging a commitment.”

“We are starting preparation for winter season.”

That was still months away. “It’s the second to last show of their autumn program. I think I’ll be back without worry.”

“And if you aren’t?”

“Then I’ll have to split my time.”

Snoke nodded, still pensive. “Walk with me.”

Kylo stood and followed the director from his office. Hunched in his old age, Snoke still managed to tower over him, dominant even in his growing frailty. They stopped at the window looking down into the theater where dancers were running through _Agon_.

“I’ve always wanted you to perform in that one, but you never play nicely with the girls and I can’t have more than one soul crushed per performance.”

“Is that why I’m never with the same partner all season?”

“One of the many.” Snoke cleared his throat and shifted more of his weight onto his cane. “Are you certain you’ve relinquished all ties to Skywalker?”

“Yes.”

“But your mother—she asked and you answered.”

“I have no business with the company, but she is my mother.” And it would be his company when she retired—if she ever retired. Best not to anger her or cut ties completely.

“You will not be swayed to return?”

“No. I outgrew them.” Besides, Snoke was one of the few old masters that had worked with his grandfather, and he’d leap at every opportunity to learn more, to get closer to his level of technique.

“Good. And the girl, how would you rank her ability?”

“Girl?”

“The bird. She’s unknown.”

“Oh.” How would he put her? “I don’t think she’d even make it into our corps.”

“That bad?” Snoke raised a whiskered eyebrow. “I would hate to put Leia Organa out of sorts, but if this newcomer is going to taint your reputation with Holdo—”

“No, I don’t think she will.” Kylo watched the dancers below move into the third section of _Agon_ , two men taking center stage. He caught the orange flame of Hux’s hair and felt a twitch of competitiveness bubble. “I’ll stand out against the background of mediocrity.”

“That’s my boy.” Snoke patted his shoulder before turning to leave. “Don’t forget where your loyalties lie, Ren.”

 

Phasma wasn't hard to find. Impossibly tall, she had drawn a short stick in the world of ballet, her technical skills lain to waste without an equally tall partner. She served primarily as Imperial’s balletmaster, the tutor responsible for all the steps and interpretive components of the company’s current program. She'd started off as a prinicpal dancer and faculty at the Imperial Ballet’s feeder school, but had since clawed her way to Snoke's administrative second in command.

She was in the grand studio above the stage, which wasn't unusual. The space was used for full rehearsals and few people had a key. Phasma, ever in demand, liked to avoid panicked dancers as often as possible. What was strange was her partner, and the fact neither of them were leading in the movements.

Hux followed carefully, not as familiar with the steps. Both of their arm movements were graceful and arching, Phasma weaving in and out of Hux’s space. Her voice was just audible over a chorus of strings, rattling off a series of counts and instructions. Together, nearly contiguous, they went across the floor in a number of leaps, bodies close enough to make Kylo hold his breath, waiting for them to collide.

They reflected and mirrored each other, Phasma lifting Hux at the waist much the way he'd lifted her moments before. There were no clear roles in the dance, just two lines feeding in and out, chaotic but organic.

“I haven't seen you dance out of rehearsal in months,” Kylo said when they'd finished their routine.

“And you still haven't.” Phasma wiped her face off with a towel. “It's for the Winter program.”

“What is it?”

 _"Mammatus_. The one we commissioned last September. It feels more fitting for a Spring program, but you know how Snoke is. New toys go straight to the front.”

“I don't remember learning about this one.”

“That's because we haven't started rehearsing for it yet,” Hux said as he fiddled with his leg warmers. “Greta wanted to work out pacing.”

Phasma shrugged. “I guess you have seen me dance then. What brings you upstairs? Last we heard you're defecting to Skywalker for _Firebird_.”

News traveled goddamn fast in this cult of a company. “I needed advice about that actually.”

“Advice about becoming a deserter? Just because I had one promising student leave—”

“About interpretation. They're doing the Fokine choreography.”

“Haven't you danced that one before?”

“Years ago, and we did the Balanchine one last Autumn.”

“When are they opening?”

“Tomorrow.”

She gave him a look.

“And I need to be there at five today.”

“Of course you do.” She turned to Hux. “Don't you have your column to work on?”

“Technically. Do we need anything from the grocery?

“Eggs.” Kylo put his bag down as Hux picked his up. “And blueberry Clif bars if you see any.”

“It's only ever the blueberry ones.”

“At least I don't drink Soylent.”

“I keep telling you, it's an enormous time saver—”

“Can you two ever occupy the same breathing space without bickering?”

They whipped around. “No.”

“How and why you live together is beyond me.”

Convenience, mostly.

 

“You do know how to read a clock, right?”

It had taken Leia all of ten minutes to find him after he’d slunk in one of the basement doors and into the costume shop. Now, with pins sticking him in multiple locations, he didn't dare turn to face his mother.

“No, can't say I ever learned.”

“You're holding us all up, not to mention putting extra pressure on Chewie.”

“Ees not beek problem. Had measurements long time, only steeching left.”

“Don't make excuses for him just because you're on top of things.” Leia sighed and he knew her expression without looking. “Just haul ass to the main stage when you're done down here. You'll have to test out your costume after we do the final run through.” He heard her footsteps pause at the door. “And Ben?”

“Yes?”

“For the love of Christ, stop tormenting my dancers.”

With her departure, there was quiet. A pencil scratching at paper and soft mutterings in Russian filled the air as Kylo stood perfectly still, the master costumer consumed by his work.

"I feel like this collar is going to be hot under the lights.” It was faux fur, white and fluffy, lining the plunging neckline of his jacket. Until now, he had been convinced cleavage windows were a female-only clothing feature.

“Leetle warm, yes. Not uncomfortable.”

It was the boots that would kill him. There were few things he hated more than dancing in anything but traditional slippers. Imperial rarely did ballets with any scraps of a plot and thus boots were never a part of his costumes. He didn't miss character work.

Both Luke and Leia were on stage giving their briefing, the whole of the cast antsy to start. They had put a lot of effort and color into the costumes. The princesses were in white with gold scattered, the girl playing the bird in vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, feathers and long lengths of tulle cascading in a bustle mimicking fire. Her shoes were red but, with matching tights, they didn't completely ruin her line (even still, that was unacceptable). Koschei the Deathless was a familiar black dancer, his dark skin painted white to look like bones, an open black and green robe trailing down to his calves. His creatures were women in the corps, also in greens though lighter in saturation.

He was familiar with the blocking of this stage. Hadn't been on it in years, but it felt like a lost home. Muscle memory took over when he took his place in the wings. The girl started, flitting across the stage, the wild train of her leotard fluttering like a great feathered tail. He was a hunter here in a strange world, spending too much of his entrance hiding behind set pieces.

Her technique needed work. Her arms didn't seem fluid enough to be wings and she wasn't used to dancing with such a heavy costume. They had drilled this first scene for hours two nights ago and still she was making mistakes. He couldn't remember her name, but every bad habit she had was burned into his brain. He catalogued them, marking them in order of egregiousness to bring them up after rehearsal.

The run went smoothly otherwise. They had new choreography for Koschei and he could understand why; the dancer portraying him got considerable height in his jumps, traveling high and far with each leap. The creatures were also more intimidating and he'd had to learn new blocking for his capture, being swarmed by bodies instead of pretending to be thrown around by magic.

“You have absolutely no chemistry with Tallie.”

Poe blocked his march towards where the girl portraying the bird had disappeared. He'd been intent on giving her a lecture. “Who?”

“Tallissan, the Tsarvena you lock lips with.”

“Oh. The blondish one.” He tried to step around and Poe mirrored. He was surprisingly quick for someone in an air cast. “You're in my way.”

“I know.”

“Do you maybe want to try moving out of it?”

“No. I know you, I know what you're up to.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Poe gave him a look. “Whatever level of harshness you're preparing, take it down a few notches. You do have to dance with her for the show.”

“I know, I know.”

“I don't think you do, but,” Poe moved aside, “don't be yourself.”

Kylo found the girl in one of the smaller dressing rooms chatting with a member of the corps. They broke apart when they saw him, the other girl saying a hasty goodbye before disappearing down the hall.

He gave her a once over. “Lauren was it?”

Her eyebrows climbed towards her hairline. “ _Rey_.”

“Close enough. You're rigid as a board on stage.”

“Rigid? You're going to criticize me for being rigid while that kiss had about as much passion in it as a cement truck?”

“I never claimed to be an actor. But you're a dancer. You should look like a bird, not a loofa on stilts.”

She looked about to say something but instead picked up her bag and left, knocking hard into his shoulder as she passed.

So full of herself, how unbecoming. With a sigh, he started his way down to the costume shop for the last round of alterations.

* * *

“Lauren! He called me _Lauren_!” Rey, fuming, slammed her bag of groceries on the kitchen table. “Is my name really that difficult to remember?”

“No, not even.” Finn followed behind, nudging their door closed with a foot.

“And then he said I looked rigid!”

“Really? He had the balls to criticize you after such a lackluster kiss?”

"That's what I said!” Rey threw open the crisper drawer, tossing in a head of lettuce and assorted vegetables. “I've never met such a pompous ass before, and that's saying something.”

“Are you guys talking about Kylo Ren?” Tallie wandered in to put a plate in the dishwasher.

Rey sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“Was that as stiff as it looked?”

Tallie frowned. “Stiffer, if you can imagine. I think you'd get a pretty good idea of how stiff if you wanted to try kissing a wall.”

“What the hell gives him the right to act so important if he can't put even a sliver of emotion in?”

“Imperial mostly dances Balanchine.” Finn finished putting the rest of the groceries away. “It's all about technique. Kylo is a technical genius, but the only facial expression he's nailed down is looking like he has a stick up his ass.”

That was putting it lightly.

Her appetite lacking, Rey retreated to her room, exhausted and nervous about tomorrow. She rented a small apartment in Queens with Finn, Tallissan, and one of Finn’s friends who wasn't in ballet. It was working out better than expected. Everyone got along, the place was quiet, and they did family dinner once a week when they were all home.

It was a nice change from years of boarding school. She had privacy, a kitchen, a little spending money, and friends. They weren't super close to work, but the rent was reasonable and their neighborhood was relatively quiet. Hell, there was a corner store in nearly every direction open almost all hours of the night.

Rey dropped her bag in the corner by her closet and flopped onto her bed, muscles in her back and calves sore. She hadn't had much time to look at her phone all day and found a string of group texts and a few news-related push notifications. She stood to pull her door open.

“Did you see they're closing our stop on the 7 this weekend?”

Finn groaned. “You're joking.”

“I wish.”

“Is the whole line down?”

"Nope, just us. Emergency construction.”

“I hate this city. I swear I'm leaving the first opportunity I get.”

“And where will you go? Joffrey?”

“Chicago is supposed to be nice, right?”

“Chicago's a hell hole!” Tallie called from down the hall. “Worse traffic, bad winters, less pay.”

“New York. Can't live in it, can't live away from it.” Finn sighed and leaned against the hallway. “So what do we do tomorrow morning?”

“Pray, I guess. Maybe hustle to a different station or take another train in.”

“I'll take a look at the schedule later, figure out a plan of action. I'm making chicken and rice, do you want any?”

“I'm good, thanks though. I think I'm just going to sleep, still haven't recovered from that guerrilla sunrise practice.”

She went through one final round of stretching before crawling into bed, defeated after the long day. She'd be lying if she said she weren't nervous about the performance tomorrow. Between her scathing partner and inexperience as a soloist, there was a lot on the line.

* * *

“You're back late.”

Hux was in his usual spot on the sofa, laptop open in front of him, cup of coffee to his right. He was balancing a book precariously on his knee, not quite paying attention to anything he was multitasking.

“Costume fitting.” Kylo stepped on a heel to loosen one of his Chelseas. “Takes forever when they only have one guy.”

“Sometimes I wonder how they're considered a professional outfit.”

“Old name. They make money.” Kylo dropped down beside his roommate and grabbed a PlayStation controller from the coffee table. “Do you want in?”

“If you're playing Overwatch, no.”

“And if I'm not?”

Hux sighed and closed his laptop. “I swear to God, if you make me play one more round of FIFA this month, I'll throw the television out the window.”

“No fun allowed, got it.”

Kylo loaded something from his Steam library instead, a satirical platformer with equal parts overly muscular men, explosions, and American flags. They could agree on this one; it was one of few things that managed to get Hux to laugh.

Which he needed if he was going to start asking prying questions.

“So how was your one-on-one lesson with Phasma?”

“It wasn't a _lesson_.” Hux lit a line of napalm. “We're going to be starting full rehearsals for _Mammatus_ soon and she hasn't had much time with it on the floor.”

“Hasn't she been working with the guest choreographer the whole time?”

“Yes, but it's not quite the same. She'll be dancing in this one.”

“Wait, casting was done already?” He hadn't heard anything about that.

“You're not in it. It's a short modern program.”

“Oh.” He was fine with that; not a big fan of how modern looked. “But you are?”

“No, Mr. S just decided, hey, what the hell, let's leave the one male principal who's extremely well-trained in modern out of our modern show for this season." He shot Kylo a look. "Of course I'm in it, dumbass."

“So, if she's in it, and you're the other tallest principal…”

“Yes, we're dancing as a pair.” Hux took out a xenomorph, flustered. “Why is that of any importance?”

“I do not understand how you keep composure around her and then turn into a stuttering mess when someone mentions her.”

“Whatever you're implying—”

“You know what I'm implying.”

“Stop.” He slunk down into the leather cushions. “I try not to think about it that much, all right? It just gets in the way.”

Kylo was quiet as he waited for Hux's irritation to fizzle out. He'd been pushing too many buttons recently. They played in silence to the end of the level.

“Do you think you're ever going to tell her?”

“What's the point of that?”

“If she feels the same way—”

“No, we work together. Nothing good comes of affairs inside the company. It'll end in some huge explosive mess and we'll all suffer for it.” Hux put his controller down and reached for his laptop. “It's not worth it.”

“It's been years, though.”

“So? What difference does it make how long it's been?” He wiped down his glasses before putting them on. “I have work to do.”

Thoroughly bristled and moody, it was best to leave Hux alone. Kylo spent another half hour playing before getting up to raid the pantry, hunger eventually gnawing through his consciousness.

Their kitchen was well stocked with all manner of pots and pans and baking utensils. Kylo had moved in a few years ago after Hux's old roommate got tired of his quirks. Though he himself was from a food-loving half Italian family, none of cookware in the kitchen was his. Hux had, at some point, been much more interested in cooking. He'd changed before they met, favoring the efficiency of things like Soylent, quest bars, and protein shakes.

“There's half a sandwich in the fridge if you want it.”

“You ate a sandwich?”

“ _Half_. It's pastrami, mustard, and havarti.”

Kylo grabbed the styrofoam box and returned to the couch. “Moment of weakness?” he asked as he opened his laptop.

“You could put it like that.”

“Anyway, thanks.”

He went through his emails, looking for any updates from the archivist he was working with. They'd hit a wall a few months ago, but after an excited text earlier this week, he had some hope for good news.

There was an attachment. God, yes, there was an attachment. He hesitated opening it, trying to read the body of the email before he tore into it. He caught the words ‘Balanchine,’ ‘Skywalker,’ and ‘Oberon'. This was the big one, wasn't it?

His eyes scanned the text of the newspaper article and his heart sank, adrenaline gathering like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't good news, nor the information he was waiting for. This was something he'd never wanted to read.

“I'm going to bed,” he said softly, shutting down his computer.

“Already?”

“I do have a show tomorrow.”

Hux eyed him suspiciously but didn't give away what he was thinking. “Do you want me to wake you up before I leave?”

“Doesn't matter.”

Kylo closed his room door and let out a shaky breath. Tomorrow would be interesting, to say the least.

* * *

 

            _January 18, 1962_

            _Anakin Skywalker, 25, was found dead in his Midtown apartment early Thursday morning. Mr. Skywalker, a principal at the Imperial Ballet, had made his last appearance on stage Wednesday night at the opening of George Balanchine’s_ A Midsummer's Night’s Dream _in the role of Oberon. The cause of death is currently unknown, but there is reason to suspect an overdose. A promising, rising star in the ballet world, his early parting is truly a tragedy. Mr. Skywalker leaves behind his wife, the New York State senator Padmé Amidala, and his newborn twins, Luke and Leia._

__

__Anakin Skywalker, guesting at the Royal Ballet as Oberon in__ The Dream, _ _1960__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're playing Broforce, by the way.
> 
> Mammatus is a ballet choreographed for the Joffrey Ballet in 2015. It takes its name after the cloud formation and focuses on the chaotic but organic elements of nature. It is set to Weather One by Michael Gordon.


	3. Chapter 3

         
this is nowhere near finished but i'm washing my hands of it -m

* * *

 

Morning came too quickly to her tired mind. Sunlight steamed into her room through the cracks in old blinds, bringing her unwillingly into the waking world. She bumbled through a cup of coffee and a handful of trail mix while waiting for Finn and Tallie to wake and meet her in their tiny kitchen. They found themselves hauling ass from their regular stop at Court St. Station to Hunters Point, leaving obnoxiously earlier than usual. The autumn-turning-winter morning chill frosted pleasantly against Rey's skin.

Subways were an inconvenient way to get around. Long travel time, crowded, and inexplicably late more often than not, they had quickly become the bane of Rey’s existence. When she first started using them, she found her eyes glued to the windows, searching the passing walls for the name of her stop. Now she sat with her bag in her lap, counting the stops, trying not to fall back into dreams.

They switched trains once reaching the island and had a short walk from the 1 to the theater, hustling as the sun climbed higher into the morning sky. She was going to need at least one nap before _The Firebird_ tonight.

It took most of Rey's energy to get her pointe shoes on and stand at the barre, muscles tense from an awkward sleep. They would stretch and do a full company class to brush up techniques, all of Skywalker crammed into the largest studio in the building adjacent to the opera house. It was more lively when the full company was at the home theater, but it would be another three weeks before the dancers touring in Europe returned. Rey was looking forward to it, she’d really been missing—

Oh, fucking shit, she totally missed that last jeté by a mile.

In her defense, it _was_ early.

She was down with Chewie in the costume shop after class, arms out as he added more feathers to the “wings” on her back. The little ones didn't seem to make it through each dress rehearsal and she estimated she'd be back downstairs before every run to get this red monstrosity touched up. She did prefer that it was a leotard sans tutu, it felt much more freeing to move in, even if the tail felt like it was made of concrete with the weight it packed. At least the feather she was supposed to hand to Kylo was easy to identify, the gold embellishments making it stand out.

By noon she was in with the physical therapist, having her toes, ankles, and knees evaluated, the older woman directing her through careful exercises. It was maintenance, much like flossing her teeth. She had no time for anything going wrong tonight.

* * *

 Kylo woke to his first alarm and snoozed. He was awakened by the second alarm and also snoozed. By the third alarm, Hux was pounding on his door. Fourth, his covers were pulled back and the ginger weasel was close to spitting mad.

“I don't mind that you sleep in, I mind that you hit snooze seven times _on average_ and our downstairs neighbors text me about it every morning.”

"It's not every morning.”

“EVERY. MORNING.” Hux made a strangled, frustrated noise. “ _Get up, Ren_!”

Kylo was slow out of bed. Usually he'd haphazardly ‘make his bed’ (he really just threw the comforter across it to hide that his sheets never stayed tucked in), stood for a moment, then flopped back onto the mattress to scroll through Reddit for a half hour, still not awake. Eventually he'd stumble into the kitchen, bathrobe half trailing behind him, and stick a mug under the Keurig, selecting something random from the drawer Hux meticulously organized.

Hux treated coffee like a religion. He had three different magic pots to brew coffee, this machine, an espresso machine (which Kylo didn't dare ask the price of, knowing the number would make him queasy), two grinders, a French press, and a small shrine hidden in one of their cabinets. Kylo, conversely, could drink a cup of mud if someone called it coffee and be none the wiser.

He kept swearing he'd kick the Clif bar habit, but there were few quick, calorie-packed alternatives that didn't taste like ass. Imperial wasn't forgiving when it came to reasonable lunch breaks, or dinner breaks. Or eating, really. Maybe he should try Soylent…

Hux had a much different morning routine. Up at five, he went on a jog when the weather wasn't horrible. When it was, he went out anyway, but with a more annoyed expression. This jog lasted precisely forty-five minutes regardless of the distance covered. Home, he would shower and brew coffee before settling in at his desk for a brief period of quiet. God, he loved the silence.

Seven-thirty signaled the beginning of the Alarm Wars, Kylo’s obnoxious phone screaming every five minutes until Hux either banged on their shared wall or dragged the stubborn jackass out of bed. Hux would then leave for work once Kylo looked conscious, arriving early to sew the elastic onto his shoes (of course he did that, he's Hux) and and go over his schedule for the day.

Which made it odd, since it was well after ten and Hux was still in the living room.

“Did you touch my stuff?”

"I did not touch your stuff.”

“I can see the Soylent bag on the counter. I'm near-sighted, not blind.”

“I thought you'd left.”

“Well I clearly haven't left.”

Kylo squinted. “Are you playing _Doom?”_

“I'm stressed.”

“I'm surprised you got my tower to stream without my password.”

Hux snorted. “You think I don't have your password?”

“Point taken.”

Hux shut the game down and stood. “I'll be back first tonight, so if you're considering going out for drinks after your show—because, if I were you, I'd need a drink after having to dance at Skywalker—text me where.”

“Who would I go with?”

“I don't know, maybe you'll make….friends….” Hux stopped mid-sentence. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. The usual spot?”

“Usual spot.”

With Hux out the door, Kylo returned to his room to stretch. The changing of seasons always made his joints feel a little achy, but the knee was the worst, buzzing like a hive of hornets. Taking his time, he got off track going back through his email. The newspaper clipping from last night was still bugging him.

It made some sense, based on the rest of the files he'd been able to dig out of library archives. His mother had always shut down any discussion about his grandfather, his uncle didn't seem to know much, and his grandmother used to get very quiet when asked about her late husband. She had died years ago when Kylo was still small, leaving so many unanswered questions in her wake. One of the greatest ballet dancers of the modern era had left behind nothing but crumbs and rumors about his demise. Some said he just vanished one day, went into hiding with Elvis somewhere in the Mojave Desert. Others thought he made a deal with the Soviets and went to dance with the Bolshoi, getting a new face, new name, completely unrecognizable. The truth, if the unpublished obituary were to be believed, was that Anakin Skywalker had died of a drug overdose. The most mundane, expected, disappointing cause of death for any overworked, overstressed celebrity was drugs.

It left an acrid taste in Kylo's mouth.

With all he'd learned about his grandfather, something wasn't adding up right. There was some missing piece and he would go to the bottom of the well for it, or get as close as he possibly could before drowning.

Kylo finally left his apartment at quarter after three, trying to push his arrival at Skywalker's on-season theater as late as humanly possible before Leia would shoot him dead with one poisonous glare. He didn't want to be stuck around his mother's company longer than necessary, the building bringing up old, long repressed memories.

“Your father will be here tonight,” Leia texted him as he took a train in from Williamsburg. He and Hux had opened a bottle of champagne upon learning the L train construction wasn't going to fuck up their commute. So he was stuck on the M as usual, with enough cell signal to get incoming bombs like that.

“Dad's home?”

“He landed this afternoon.”

“Why is he coming?”

“He hasn't seen you dance in years, Ben, why wouldn't he?”

Kylo sighed. Han…tried. He really did. He went to Kylo's dance recitals when he was home, he sort of remembered ballet terminology, and he looked proud. But…

“Please, please do not let him talk to Holdo.” His career would ride on his father not making small talk with the biggest critic in the business. One stupid slip up and he could get sacked.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

As if he weren't dreading this role enough.

He made a habit of slinking in backdoors, creeping down the steps from street level into the basement. He was using Poe’s dressing room, which he shared with two other principals. One of the benefits of Imperial was the treatment. Their most valuable dancer, Kylo had a private dressing room, a sink, and a massive vanity to himself. Poe, in contrast, had a corner of the room, a trunk, and space in front of the mirror for assorted makeup and hair products.

It had been ages since Kylo last did his own show makeup.

Six o'clock curtain, seven o'clock overture, and at just after five, the dancers were stretched, jittery, and hustling about on the costuming floor. There was a lot of stress on Skywalker for this performance; the company had been hurting for attendence and favorable reviews for too many seasons and this was a chance to pull in more sponsors if it went well. After all, Holdo would be there.

Hearing a rap on his door, Kylo turned his head, half a face of makeup caked on already. “Dad.”

Han stood in the threshold, wry smile on his face. “Are you ready to be the Waterfowl?”

Bless him, he was trying. How his father had managed to marry a famous ballerina and still be this clueless about what she and his son did for a living was a cross between a source of comedy and annoyance. “It's _The Firebird_ , and I'm the prince, not the bird.”

“Oh, your mother had mentioned something about that.”

Kylo swiveled on his chair, attention back to the mirror. “Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to wish you shit.”

“Merde. It's merde, dad.” Kylo had to repress a chuckle. “I'm running behind at the moment, so I'll need it.”

“We'll see you for dinner tomorrow?”

“Unless anything comes up, yeah.”

The makeup on his eyes felt heavy-handed when he was finished, but it would have to do. No one would get close enough to him to tell his lips were the wrong color, or that he'd blended the foundation incorrectly. Costumed and with a half hour to curtains, Kylo wandered up onto the stage, feeling the floor under his feet. He'd almost forgotten to rub rosin on his shoes, so used to the marley floor at Imperial.

He stopped in the middle of the stage, the air around him calm. The sounds of the dancers and techs in the wings faded out, leaving nothingness in place of the chatter. If he closed his eyes, he could see it in slow motion: the turn that went too far, the unnatural twisting of his knee. He could taste the sharp heaviness of blood from when he'd hit the stage and had almost bit through his tongue. Adrenaline surged up his spine and made his hands shake, his head a little light, ears ring.

With a deep breath, he opened his eyes. It wouldn't happen again.

* * *

 “It's a full house out there,” Leia said when she returned from her scope around the lobby. “We sold out almost as soon as we announced Kylo would be replacing Poe.”

Nervousness hammered through Rey's limbs. As if preforming tonight weren't enough of a stressor on its own. Now it was coupled with being opposite Kylo Ren, dancing in front of his fanclub, and being scrutinized by Amilyn Holdo, the toughest critic in the business. If she'd eaten anything in the last two hours, she'd be puking it back up right about now.

“Calm down.” Leia put her hands on Rey’s shoulders. “You're not auditioning for anything, you're not back at the Prix de Lausanne, it's not your first ballet. Do what you've been doing in rehearsal and you'll be fine.”

“But Holdo—”

“Is harsh, but her word isn't law. Breathe.”

She went to take her place in the wings, waiting impatiently for the orchestra to begin. The lights on the stage were dark blue, casting a murky twilight onto the set pieces. Her feathers looked a little violet, her skin lavender. The crew for this show wasn’t costumed and it was difficult to make them out in the darkness, pale faces drifting above the void of their full black uniforms. She caught sight of Rose on the other side, pulling on heavy gloves coated in Kevlar to work the flies. She gave Rey a smile and a bright green thumb.

Just nerves, just nerves. She shook out her arms, then her legs, hopping in place to get the rest of her anxiety out. This would be fine. She knew her part, there was nothing to worry about, this would be fine—

The curtain rose and she began her count in. The stage manager on her side followed as well, giving her the signal when the music dipped for the shortest second.

She soared.

Light on her feet, Rey let the swell of strings guide her muscles, flitting across the stage floor as though she had wings. The tail of her costume sailed behind her like a great kite of regal flames. She floated, landing a grand jeté before she spun into the opposite wing.

Blood roared like a waterfall in her ears as she watched Kylo replace her in the spotlight. His shoes made no sound as he crept across the stage, pretending scout out the landscape before hiding behind the huge golden tree.

Out of the wings again, Rey danced through honey yellow lights ignoring Kylo's presence until it was too late.

Prince Ivan snuck up on the Firebird from behind, pinning her wings so while she fluttered, she couldn't escape. When she bounded into the air, he caught her around the waist, bringing the mythical bird back down.

It had been so static and emotionless in rehearsal, but now, under the stage lights, something caught fire. She moved like rainwater around him, against him, fluid and smooth. His fingers were guides, bright stars in the night sky. She lost track of her breathing, her step count, the outside noise. It was just them in the theater, alone in a sea of people, two bodies in sync. It was all a blur. They were so close. She could see the individual hairs in his eyebrows, the beads of sweat gathering in his hairline, the absolute concentration in his eyes. When she gave him the feather he would use to call her back in the last act, she almost forgot to leave, to look anywhere but his gaze.

The world spun when she exited the backstage door. She stood with her back to the cool brick wall, waiting precious few breath-catching seconds before finding somewhere to stretch. It wouldn't be long until she was back on stage. _The Firebird_ wasn't a long show and with no intermission to give her a general idea of how much time was left, she hovered close to the backstage doors, waiting for her cue.

She was on again after Kylo's character had a bad run-in with Koschei the Deathless. Her entrance was big, energetic, and full of movement. Rey raised her arms during her retaliation against Koschei’s creatures, forcing them back and away from both Kylo and the captive princesses. Her assault continued until they were off the stage.

Her exit was supposed to be a solo endeavor. When she approached Kylo to make a gesture of parting, he changed up their choreography. He began into one of the lifts from their first pas de deux, and she, blindly, followed him into it. His hands were fire on her once more and she took to the air in a final, graceful leap before disappearing into the wings.

What was that. What the hell was that. There was no time to ask him what the hell was going on when he rushed backstage for a costume change. He didn't even look at her, just breezed back into the lights with his new wedding garb. She took her bow by herself and when the curtains closed, he had all but disappeared.

She tried to search him out, to reprimand him for this complete change in choreography (that she'd followed stupidly), but was swarmed fast with familiar faces. Finn picked her up, positively glowing as he twirled her around.

“That was amazing!” He set her down, hands moving to her shoulders. “You killed it dude!”

“I did?”

“Hell yeah you did! Are you seriously asking? C'mon, go get changed, we're going out for food and drinks.”

* * *

 “Well, how did it go?”

Kylo found Hux in their regular haunt. It was an all-cash bar in the East Village with red walls, Soviet-themed posters, and imported beer. Kylo sat beside Hux and scanned the chalkboard before ordering his usual poison.

“It went okay.”

“Just okay?”

“This isn't my first time dancing at that stage.”

“But it's your first time back in a number of years.”

Kylo caught a flash of the fall in his memories before waving it away. “Nothing spectacular happened.”

"I hope that's true for your sake. Mr. S is going slightly mad at the moment and any negative attention from Holdo won't reflect well.”

“What's happening now?”

“Complications for the tour. He wants the _Four Temperaments_ front and center, and most East Asian countries prefer full length classical ballets, which 4Ts is not. In addition, his best dancer going on tour—you—is a terrible actor. Spoiler alert, you're going on tour, don't let him know you know that, I wasn't supposed to tell.”

“Why the hell do you know before I do?”

“Greta.”

“And she knows because…?”

“She's a major player in casting each season and has to know which dancers will be where. She wasn't supposed to tell me though, so you really cannot say anything or all three of us will get our asses whipped.”

“You’d think Snoke would ask us if we wanted to tour before just drawing names and sending us across the globe.”

“You think Snoke _asks_?”

“Touché.” Kylo sipped at his beer. “So were you two doing ‘lessons’ again—”

“No, for the love of God, I can hear the air quotes in your voice. She was just telling me her concerns about the upcoming season.”

“I didn't think Phasma was capable of feeling concern.”

“She's a giant, not a robot. That's my nickname, remember?”

“Ah, the _troika_ , da comrade. Robot, André, and Dumbo. You know Snoke actually had me grow my hair out because he said my ears ruined my line?”

“He tried to get me to dye my hair when I got picked to join the company.”

“You? Dye your hair?”

“ _Tried_. How many other ginger ballet dancers have you seen at Imperial?”

“I'm surprised your hazing nickname wasn't Carrot Top or the Flying Tomato.”

“One, I don't snowboard, I've never snowboarded. Two, I don't fly unless it's on an plane.”

“So if someone gave you the opportunity to have wings…?”

“I'd have to pass it up, wouldn't I? Since then there would be no excuse not to call me the Flying Tomato.”

 

It wasn't terribly late when they got home, but the alcohol and adrenaline crash sent Kylo to bed after a shower. He'd be doing it again tomorrow night, best to be rested and not a groggy mess.

In his dreams, he saw the girl. Rey, her name was Rey. Her form morphed into that of a phoenix, fiery feathers melting the snow on the ground near his feet. He followed her deep into the forest, through darkened underbrush and curling pine trees. Their needles were still green through the crispness of the winter, still vibrant with only the stars for light. Out of breath, he broke the chase in a small clearing. The branches above covered the sky so only a small moonbeam could peek through. On a dead stump stood the firebird, her plumage a warm torch in the frostbitten night.

She let him touch her, let him stroke his fingers through her long red and gold feathers. They felt more like silk against his skin, silk and heat. When he pulled his hand away, she was the girl again, crystals and rubies twinkling along her rich clothing. She took his face in her hands and smiled. He'd never felt such warmth climb through his nerves, spike his bloodstream, creep into his heart.

In a flash she was gone, leaving him in the snowy white dreamscape.

 • • • 

There wasn't a lot of hustle at Skywalker the next afternoon. Rey, exhausted from too long a night, sat on the stage doing extremely lazy stretches as the rest of the company slowly filed in. Leia was going to talk to them before anyone started getting ready for the evening show; it was the usual process. She'd open with what went well, what needed work, and what had improved since the last time they'd performed.

Poe was there for moral support—his own more than anyone else’s. He was sitting on the lip of the stage with a copy of the New York Times’ _Ballet Review_ , something the cast had been dreading since it came out that morning.

“What do you mean, ' _Skywalker benefited from the replacement of Dameron_ ’?”

Finn was hovering nearby. “What's got you so scandalized?”

“Read this!” Poe shoved the paper at Finn. “I cannot believe this woman, every fucking time—”

“Wow, she actually said something neutral about me for once. Neutral is usually praise for Holdo, right?” Finn was quiet as he kept reading. Then, his head snapped up. “Rey, you need to read this.”

“I don't need to read anything that'll make me feel worse or nervous.”

“It won't, I promise.”

She rose and took the offending paper. Rey had to cover her mouth the farther down the page she read.

• • •

Kylo sat in his dressing room with the door open, eyes glazing over, brain not quite processing language at the moment. This wasn't a review he was expecting from Holdo. This was higher praise than he'd ever seen from her. She wasn't known for being kind with her words. She was barely known for saying anything remotely neutral, but this review was turning him sideways.

Brain aching, he put the paper down and turned his head to chase movement in the corner of his eye. Fire and feathers passed by, but not before she caught his gaze, her own expression perplexed as though her thoughts were tripped up elsewhere.

He dazed off into space when she'd vanished, trying in vain to put a broken puzzle back together.

 

* * *

 

_October 15, 2018_

_It is with great pleasure I can announce there is something being performed at the Skywalker Ballet Theater that is, for once, actually worth my time. In a strange turn of events, Kylo Ren, the Imperial Ballet’s newly minted_ Danseur Noble, _is guesting at Skywalker in Stravinsky's_ The Firebird _as the young Prince Ivan, a role previously meant for Poe Dameron._

_In most cases, I do not think a guest principal flows well with the host company, but Skywalker benefited from the replacement of Dameron. Indeed, while Ren's face can typically only muster the emotional complexity of a two-by-four, relying on his unmatchable technical skills to excel, the opening last night was full of passion and fire. The chemistry between Ren and Skywalker's capable newcomer Rey was palpable. With their heat so stifling, I almost wish Prince Ivan had run off with the Firebird instead, as his romance with the Princess, Tallissan Lintra, was not locatable even with the world's most powerful microscope._

_The design work for Koschei the Deathless was interesting. I don't think I've ever seen glow-in-the-dark paint outside of an elementary school child's bedroom, but it was certainly a unique touch. The dancer portraying him, Finn MacCumhall, had enough acting ability to salvage the ridiculousness of his character’s minions._

_The Firebird will be performed until the end of October and is entertaining enough for those of you sick of Imperial’s constant and relentless Balanchine revivals. If nothing else, it's worth a watch for the previously unseen emotional performance from Kylo Ren, which rides on the tail of his regal, mischievous bird._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bar Kylo and Hux are in is called the KGB Bar. Since I'm always a slut for euro-lagers, their beer selection makes me happy.
> 
> Holdo is some unholy combination of Anton Ego and Alastair McCaulay.
> 
> Finn's last name is pronounced like mah-KOOL.
> 
> I appreciate hearing from all of you and the comments and questions so far have been making my week<3 thank you all for being heckin great readers!
> 
> hi, this is mako. a huge thank you to @tearoomsaloon for bringing the au of my dreams to life, and to everyone for the tremendous support! if you'd like to Banish gaynor mindens or wax poetic about balanchine, hmu at @makopls on tumblr!


	4. Chapter 4

  


“Why did you lift me that last time?”

It had taken a lot of courage to confront him. Her hands were still half shaking from reading Holdo’s review, nervousness building the longer she stood in front of him. Would he snap at her again? Or would he—

“Your performance up to that point had been so bland, I thought I'd help you not look like the personification of mediocrity in a dress.”

He'd be insulting.

“We have to dance together tonight, would it kill you to be any less inflammatory?”

“Yes, it would. And just because we have to perform doesn't mean I have to like you, or be nice.”

“You don't have to be nice, but you could at least try to be civil.”

“This is civil. Don't like it, don't talk to me.”

What an asshole. “You're just upset Holdo didn't say a single negative thing about me.”

That got him to stop. “I don't care about Holdo’s reviews, I only care that they don't upset my director.”

"She said you have a wooden face.”

He stalked back to her positively glowering. “I have more raw ability in one of my metatarsals than you do in the entirety of your flimsy, clumsy body, and I don't need some egotistical critic to tell me I meet the expectations of my pedigree.”

“I'm sorry Mr. Superstar, am I pushing your buttons?”

“If you ever, _ever_ feel compelled to say something to me outside of a rehearsal, I want you to shut your damn mouth turn around, and walk in the other direction.”

He gave her a final glare before disappearing out the door, slinking away to stretch, or brood.

Rey let out a sigh and crossed her arms over her chest before returning to the main stage. She'd waited until just before curtain call to confront him, which may not have been her brightest idea, but at least now there wasn't enough time for his words to sink in. She could just get into character, dance her part, and get out, returning home to leftover chicken and assorted vegetables. It would be fine, she'd just lie awake in the dark replaying his enraged rant until she hated herself a little more.

“He's a real charmer,” Rey spit bitterly after scooting next to Poe. “Can completely see how he's such a hit with the ladies.”

Poe snorted. “I don't think he knows women can offer companionship outside of a studio.”

“Then why does he have such a following?”

“He's attractive, he's one of the best, and he says very little to the press, which makes him mysterious. Women love quiet and broody.”

"So the reason you can't get a girlfriend is because you don't shut up, right?”

“Careful there girl, I'm not the one you're upset with.”

“He's just so… _mean_. It's like everything I do is a personal insult.”

“Don't let it get to you, it's not you. It's everyone. He likes about seven people in the world and everyone else is just an annoyance. If you want my advice, try to avoid him. You've only got five more shows together.”

Five shows. She could manage that. After that, she'd never have to speak to him again.

 

The lights and the adrenaline transformed her onstage. There were some seasoned dancers who grew out of the nerves and the excitement, but she didn't think she ever would, so wrapped into the grace and magic of it. Her pulse racing, she felt confident and comfortable, the words from Holdo’s review moving her.

All the tension she had with Kylo disappeared once their dance began. She followed him easily, paying more attention to the movement of his body than the steps and counts burned into her brain. They were there, lining the undercurrent of the music, but her attention was on Kylo. She anticipated his steps, the way his body felt when he captured her from behind, the crushing power of his hands as he supported her through the air.

When she returned for her final scene, she read his eyes and feet more than she kept to her strict blocking. He lifted her into the air and spent seconds too long looking at her, their faces too close together. An eternity went by before he lowered her, and another eon passed before she fled, the red of her tail whipping behind.

She had to catch her breath backstage, confused and dizzy. He was terrible, he was awful, and he was an ass, but she had to dance with him after this was over. Was it just the stage? The audience? Her nerves? Or did he cause the crackling of electric up her spine?

* * *

 

“Part of me wants to reprimand you for not following choreography, but it seems to be causing a stir in the reviews, so instead I'll say this: don't fuck it up.”

Kylo stood in his mother's office after changing back into street clothes. They would be doing family dinner in midtown instead of at Leia's house, since going back and forth would become a headache. It was good in the sense that he didn't have to cook something, but bad in the sense that they'd waste time parking. His parents lived out on Long Island, far enough that Leia refused to waste time on the train, but close enough to Queens that Han didn't need to keep his car at the airport when he was working.

“Where is Dad, by the way?”

“Downstairs with Chewie I'd assume. When is the reservation?”

“Eight.”

Leia slammed the drawer. “I'm not finding that tonight. Come on, let's round up the troops.”

They ended up somewhere Italian. Kylo didn't feel underdressed exactly, but the distressed dark wash jeans he had on didn't quite scream “fancy”. Leia was dressed appropriately, and his father's button-down and leather jacket combo never seemed to look out of place. Sometimes Kylo envied his old man's apathy when it came to appearances.

“So, Ben, anything new happening?”

Kylo looked up from the wine menu. “Aside from dancing at the home company? No.”

“No girlfriends?”

“No.”

“Guess I'm not hip with the times. Boyfriend, maybe? You're close to that ginger guy, right?”

"Hux and I just share an apartment, Dad. We're not dating.” Much to the chagrin of those placing bets at Imperial. “Where did you end up going this past month?”

“The Bahamas, a few transcontinental flights, nothing especially exciting.”

“Do you think we could get air time before I'm back in for my winter season?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Kylo grinned and returned his attention to the menu. He'd gotten his pilot license before he could drive and desperately missed flying. His schedule for ballet was brutal, and the two activities had clashed his whole childhood. Ballet made more sense since he couldn't do it long term and could always fly after, so he'd stuck to dancing.

Dinners were relatively smooth affairs. It had been rougher when he'd first cut ties with Skywalker, but his mother came around with a lot of prodding from Han. Dancing for a different company wasn't the end of the world, it was just a change in the now. He'd come home at some point, but at the moment, he wasn't ready. He had more to learn, and still hadn't fully gotten over the trauma of his accident. His father was more understanding, knowing the same antsy feeling that came with staying in one place too long.

He got dropped off at his apartment after ten. Exhausted, he climbed the two flights slowly and wasn't quick with his keys. Hux was glued to his usual spot, frown permanently etched into his face.

“Mr. S wants to speak to you tomorrow morning.”

Shit. “What have I done now?”

“Well, one, Holdo slammed us in her review, but I don't think that's your fault. Two, he's scheming something.”

“He's always scheming something.”

“This feels…different. Be careful, okay?”

“Are you looking out for my wellbeing?”

“Who the hell else is going to pay rent? You think I can afford this place by myself?”

“Your dad's rich.”

“I only interact with that bastard to please my mum. I'll take his money only when he's dead.”

Ahh, right, Hux had daddy issues. “What time did he say he wants to see me?”

“Nine. I'll get you up.”

“Thanks.”

Kylo retired to his room, head buzzing. The review in the paper was still bolstering his self confidence. He wanted to flick over the notes he had from the archivist. He'd been analyzing everything he had leading up to his grandfather’s death in relation to the unfinished ballet that had been written for him. He'd seen grainy videos of Anakin working in a studio, the music unfamiliar, the steps complex and alone. He'd never seen another person dance with him to this, nor had he found anything in the notes to indicate otherwise. He'd seen two other dancers, Baryshnikov and Bruhn, working in the studio to the same music, but they never danced together, always alone.

It was puzzling. The music was strange, the dance was modern and highly technical, and nothing ever came of it. He'd had to do so much digging to even learn there was an unfinished ballet written for his grandfather, and even more to find the tapes. The details seemed lost to time, but he'd keep searching.

* * *

 

 Rey sat at the kitchen table, measly salad and chicken in front of her, phone sideways playing something she wasn't paying attention to on Netflix. Kylo had, once again, managed to perform the world’s greatest disappearing act and she'd missed him after the curtains closed. It wasn't fair, these head games he was playing. Didn't Finn say he made everyone angry or cry? Well, she wasn't crying, but she sure as hell was fuming.

What gave him the right to just…change the choreography like that? Why did he get away with messing up her exit, and why the hell did she follow him through again? It was as if she could just monitor his body language and know exactly what he was up to. And her monkey brain was too stupid to stop her.

Annoyed, she boxed up the rest of her uneaten dinner and went to get ready for bed. Still mad, she wiggled under the covers and, in some spite-fueled tantrum, pulled up videos of Kylo performing on YouTube. She'd seen a few previews, but not much of him actually dancing. This wasn't the first time she'd gone on a salt binge because of another dancer, but it was the first she knew personally.

There was a lot of him in _Apollo,_ starring in the titular role. She thought Chewie’s costume for him was a bit scandalous with the plunging neckline, but this was downright risqué. A flimsy one-shouldered tunic emphasized by white tights left very little to the imagination. Male ballet dancers were a stringy sort of muscular with clear striations, but Kylo was built. Broad in the chest and with extremely powerful arms, he somehow managed to land lighter than most of the girls she'd seen.

Of course he did. He was preposterously talented. She'd never really paid attention to his dancing before, just his reputation. Obviously she'd danced with him, but it wasn't the same as being in the audience. Every single clip she watched was exactly to the choreography. Maybe Imperial was stricter about not straying from the routine. But she'd never really seen it happen in the three years she'd been with Skywalker either.

The comments on these videos were…thirsty, to say the least. Several remarks on his ‘package’ (Rey gagged internally), a lot about wanting him to do filthy things to them, and very, very few mentions of how incredible his technique and musicality were. She felt a little grimy reading through all of the lewd, lusting comments. Because on one hand, it must have been uncomfortable for him to receive that kind of attention, and on the other, she knew him (and his horrible personality) in real life, making the comments more bizarre in nature.

This was getting gross. Rey plugged in her phone and rolled over, trying to think of anything but Kylo's fanclub. If memory served right, they'd be descending on her like a flock of half-crazed harpies soon, especially since Holdo’s review praised their onstage chemistry. Five more shows and it was over.

* * *

 

Daylight came too quickly. His alarm wasn't going off yet and Hux was there, ripping his sheets from the bed, grabbing him by the ankles, and yelling.

“I'm up, I'm up!”

“That's what you said twenty minutes ago!”

Kylo hit the floor with a _thunk,_ head smarting, ears ringing. He really hated this method of getting him out of bed, but to Hux's credit, it worked. “You could have let me get out of bed myself.”

“I think you're unaware of how much you sleeptalk, because you also said that.” Hux folded his arms across his chest. “Get your stuff together, you're going to be back in company class.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

That was barely enough time. Kylo pulled himself to his feet and started the frantic dash around the room. It was like a sport, seeing how quickly he could pack his bag while managing not to forget anything.

“If you just got your stuff together at night like a normal human being, you wouldn't have to turn into a scavenging animal every morning.”

“Being meticulously prepared isn't normal, hate to break it to you.”

“I never stress about this, but you stress constantly.”

In truth, Kylo didn't think he'd wake up fully if he weren't panicking about something.

The train in was uneventful except for the occasional elbow in the ribs to wake him up. The two walked in silence from the 1 to the theater and parted with a short, choppy, ‘where are you going for break?’. Hux went left to the stage, Kylo went right and up the stairs to Snoke's offices.

“You wanted to speak to me, Sir?”

Snoke was at his desk, newspaper spread wide. Kylo caught sight of the picture of him that headlined Holdo’s review and snapped his attention back to Snoke.

“Sit, my boy, don't be a stranger.” Snoke cleared his throat. “I thought you said this girl wasn't good enough for our corps, but here Amilyn is praising her so highly.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. “In rehearsals she didn't come off as knowing what she was doing, but on the stage she changed. She hasn't had the same rigorous training as our corps; from what I gathered, she competed in the Prix de Lausanne and was scouted by Skywalker then.”

"So she's talented, but unpolished, and better under pressure. That's malleable, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, she has potential.” He hated admitting that. She had been an absolute disaster in rehearsal but had gone through a metamorphosis on stage.

“Some members of the company will be touring through the winter and early spring seasons as I'm sure you've heard by now, gossip has always traveled quickly here. I want you, Kylo, to be representing Imperial overseas, and that means getting you comfortable in classical roles.”

“Sir?”

“You'll be performing in Russia with the Bolshoi, who are much more classically oriented than we are. In addition, most of the East Asian countries you'll be dancing in favor classical ballet over contemporary. You've excelled here due to emphasis on technique over acting, but you need practice for this.”

“I don't understand where the girl ties in.”

“I want you and her to perform opposite each other in our early winter program. She's earned enough praise to guest, and anyone with a brain would leap at the opportunity to dance anything other than _Nutcracker_.” Snoke made a face, disgusted by the thought. “And when the run ends, we'll poach her. Not very polite, but there's no reason to let talent to go waste in such a deteriorating company.”

This was…sinister, to say the least. Imperial almost exclusively gained dancers from the feeder school. Kylo was one of few to come from an outside company, and even then his original contract was riddled with clauses because of it. Letting the girl into the company would step on so many toes, especially if she wasn't demoted to the corps.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Something I'm not sure you can: play nice. Don't upset her. You can treat her however you please once she's contracted here, but for now, try to be less…How should I put it? Irritating.” He folded his hands, eyes hard. “Off you go, Kylo, you're late to class.”

He was quick out of the cold, ostentatious office. Speaking with Snoke one on one always creeped him out, the old man's overcalculating mind whirling at a speed he couldn't keep up with. What he was saying made sense, but at the same time…

Play nice? He was supposed to play nice? 

* * *

 

Rey spent the next two weeks following Poe’s instructions and avoiding Kylo. On stage, it was beautiful. They created something truly marvelous, full of energy and passion. Her exit changed each night, until they got closer and closer, looks ever so longing. But then he'd turn into a grouch monster off stage and sneer at her. He was frustratingly difficult to read.

At home, she'd salt brigade articles, reviews, and videos, both angry and a little annoyed. His fanclub did find her eventually and she'd been putting off looking at her emails as well, not enthused to read several dozen hate-filled tirades about how she wasn't good enough to dance with their lord and savior.

He wasn't anything special. He was a pompous, no good, overly confident, pile of—

Her phone buzzed with an incoming call, breaking her from the latest video she'd been scrutinizing. The number was unfamiliar, but she was waiting on a call from her bank.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rey Hywel?”

“This is she, who's calling please?”

“Sorry to scare you like this, dear, I got your number from a colleague. This is Aloysius Snoke, I'm the director at The Imperial Ballet.”

Oh, good Jesus, yes she knew who he was. “How can I help you?”

“I have an opportunity for you I'd like to propose. Of course, I'll speak to Leia as well, but I wanted to know if you'd be interested first. It would be an honor for us to have such a rising star guesting with our company, and though we regularly only perform a Balanchine repetoire, this winter season will have a classical ballet. I understand most of your teaching is classical, correct?”

She could feel her heart thundering in her chest. “Yes, it is.”

“How lucky. I have a role for you opposite Mr. Ren, if you would be interested. I'll speak with your director first and call you back later in the week, how does that sound?”

“That sounds fine, yeah.”

“Good. It was a pleasure speaking, Miss Rey. I hope to see you on our stage soon.”

Rey was early out of the house the next morning, not having gotten more than an hour’s sleep at a time. She made a beeline to Leia's office, panic and confusion wild on her face.

Leia raised an eyebrow. “Did you see a ghost? I think we've got one up in the catwalks.”

“I got a call from Imperial last night.”

“Snoke? What does he want with you?”

“He said something about me guesting for one show at Imperial. He said he'd call you too before getting an answer from me.”

“Kind of a dick move going behind your back, Leia.” Luke was at the desk flipping through one of his sister's many binders. “But we did take his star for a show. Maybe he's trying to get back at us?”

Leia wrinkled her nose. “Something always feels wrong about that guy. What did you tell him?”

“He said he'd call back for my response.”

“Good, tell him no when he does.”

“Telling him no might incite a power struggle. You're just still angry about Dad.”

Leia whipped around. “Of course I'm angry about Dad. That crazy, drug-fueled orgy of a company enticed Anakin worse than the snake did Eve in the garden. I already lost Ben to it, I'm not losing anyone else.”

“You forget, sister dear, we both danced for Balanchine too.” Luke stood and walked to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It's changed. Let's not be hypocrites, shall we?”

“You're one to talk.”

"Snoke has the funds to wage a war against us and we can't fight back. I think we should play into it, see what he's up to. It's just one show. And besides, Rey, how badly do you want to perform in _The Nutcracker_?”

“I'm good sitting that out for a season.”

“Perfect. Tell Snoke you'll do it.”

* * *

 

Kylo struggled not to bristle at her when he greeted Rey in Imperial’s lobby. He'd give her a tour, show her where the lockers were, and deliver her to the shoe room so she could be measured for something other than those hideous Gaynors. Stay calm, cool, and collected. He could do this without snapping.

“So good of you to join us. I doubt you'll keep up, but it'll be an interesting show.”

Dammit.

 • • •

_"Is it recording?”_

_“I think so, Padmé showed me how to use one of these before—ah! Yes, it's recoding. Do you want to start, Misha?”_

_“It's your ballet, Anyushka, it would seem improper to have one of us go first.”_

_"But I'm in the middle. Ah well, doesn't much matter to me.”_

_Anakin Skywalker situated himself in the center of the studio, the borrowed camera facing him. To the sides were Baryshnikov and Bruhn, two of his close companions and colleagues. The text in the corner of the screen indicated the year was 1961, a year before Skywalker's demise. This was one of few recordings made of Anakin, with the others being professional recordings of his dancing and a few home videos with his wife and eventually, his children. This ballet written specifically for Skywalker would go unnamed and unfinished, the information on it scant. This recording left more questions than answers when the young dancer met his unfavorable and untimely end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU HAD ONE JOB, KYLO. ONE JOB.
> 
> To be fair to Leia, Balanchine's NYC Ballet of the 1960s was a wretched hive of scum and villainy (read: drugs and intracompany affairs). It was... Let's just say the golden era of American ballet had a dark undercurrent.
> 
> Even just muttering "Nutcracker" at Imperial can get you suspended. Snoke doesn't fuck around.
> 
> Rey's last name, Hywel (pronounced howl) is Welsh and an asshove close(ish) to Haul (pronounced hai-el), which is the Welsh word for sun.  
> heh. geddit. rey sun.
> 
> I am extremely, extremely excited for chapter 5 and the forced contact between Rey and Kylo that will ensue. Also, the next ballet we have planned has probably my favorite costume design in the fic.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> hi it's me the #1 Mr. B Stan  
> leia is basically gelsey kirkland ho ho ho


	5. Chapter 5

Imperial’s theater house was... _big._ They had a main stage on the ground floor in an auditorium that must have seated well over a thousand people. There was another smaller theater in the basement for more intimate performances, seating no more than three hundred. The building itself was a Renaissance revival, a great dome in the lobby painted in the Italian style. The main theater was Baroque. Everything, floor to ceiling, was ornate. Red and gold dominated the color scheme, huge stone ornaments around the frame of the proscenium stage.

Rey tried her best not to gawk at the lavishness of the space. The upkeep must have been extravagant, all the painted portions needing to be retouched every few years, the velvet of the seats maintained, the carpets kept clean. The money that ran through this company had to have been ever-flowing. Skywalker made a quarter of Imperial’s gross, maybe even less.

“You can stare all you want later, but first we have things to do.”

She hurried to catch up with Kylo, already a good fifteen feet away. He led her back behind the auditorium into the core of the building, where the members of the company were bustling about in groups, dancers going from classes to rehearsals. She followed him down a long hallway and into an enormous storage room. Dancers’ names were written under cubbies filled with shoes. Pair after pair of pointe shoes decorated every free inch of wall space, some spilling over into cabinets in the back.

She looked back at him, confused.

“Well, pick a pair. You're not going to find a maker you like by opening your mouth like a fish. What size do you wear?”

“5.5XXX.”

“You're in luck; most our dancers wear the same.”

The bottoms of the shoes had stamps to identify their makers. There were crowns, bells, stars, letters—she felt overwhelmed already and she hadn't even opened a pair.

 The first ones had no room in the box, her toes cramped and unable to lie flat. The second pair were too tight, the satin wrinkled and puckered by her arches when she stood flat on the ground. Too snug, too wide (were these really an XXX? This dancer had to be delusional), loose, short, shank twisting, long vamp—this was a nightmare.

“Phasma thinks you'll be going through about two pairs a show, so the quicker you get fitted, the faster we can place a special order.”

“It would be easier if I knew what to feel for.”

“Oh right, you wear _Gaynors_.” Kylo said the word like someone might spit out a disagreeable bite of food. “If you haven't already guessed, I've never done pointe work, so I can't help you.”

“Well, can you find someone who has?”

With a groan, he dropped his bag and exited to the main hallway, leaving her alone in stacks of pink satin.

It took about fifteen minutes for him to return. Following behind was a tall blonde women, her hair lighter than ice and short, cut down to her chin. She gave Rey a once over before introducing herself.

“Greta Phasma, balletmaster. I'm not our shoe room manager—he won't be in for hours yet—but I can get you into a pair to start. Which have you tried so far?”

Phasma was very cut and brisk, saying no more than she needed to and asking the shortest questions possible. She had Rey in and out of five pairs of shoes before finding one that fit the best. Rey thought they were perfect, but Phasma’s face said she disagreed with her excitement.

"You’ll have to get them fixed later so we can send them in to Freed,” she said as she wrote down which dancer the shoes had come from. “These are a little loose, but you’ll be okay for today’s rehearsal.”

Phasma left without a goodbye, turning on her heel and disappearing out the door.

“She’s…aloof.” 

“She doesn’t bother with fluff and knows when to keep her thoughts to herself.”

Rey narrowed her eyes at the not-so-subtle jab. “Is everyone here like you two?”

“Most of everyone. We’re not a bunch of friendship-loving Care Bears like you lot over at Skywalker. Need a little competition and maliciousness to keep people on their toes.” He started down the hall, not waiting for her to finish yanking her sneakers back on. “Come on, no time for dawdling.”

He led her to their costume shop next. The ballet she’d be guesting in wasn’t one in their repertoire and thus, they didn’t have costumes drafted and ready. Kylo chatted with a few people in the shop while two women took her measurements, speaking to each other in rapid-fire French. Kylo’s deep voice cut through their sharp tones, but his words were also French, also incomprehensible to her English-only ears. She closed her eyes and his timbre followed her. For a brief second, she pictured his voice coming from another face, another person, someone speaking to her in soft, almost romantic tones. His laugh was sweet like honeysuckles in the springtime.

But the illusion was ruined when she came back to reality. Kylo wasn’t a French lover, and he certainly wasn’t soft, or _romantic_. She felt a little sick for even considering.

“What other snobby skills do you have, O great ballet superstar?” she asked when she her measurements had been recorded. 

“Snobby?” 

“You speak French of all languages.”

“I guested at the Paris Opera.” 

“That doesn’t answer anything, just raises more questions.”

He sighed, annoyed she was pressing. “I learned at their school and had a very short career there before moving back home, so perhaps guesting is the wrong term.”

“You got in at Paris as a _foreigner?_ ”

“My grandparents on my father’s side are French and still live in Paris, so not a complete foreigner. Can you please stop being so nosy?”

She shut up, thinking. He was American, American accent, famous American dancers in the family, French grandparents, trained in France—

“Is that why you’re such an asshole? Because you’re a wannabe Parisian?”

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

He refused all questions after that, leading her silently up into a huge studio over the main stage. Large windows let light flood the space, sunlight dancing on the mirrors. Barres were set up in the middle of the room in addition to permanent ones on the walls. Dancers littered the floor, some chatting, some stretching, and most with their shoes already on.

Kylo groaned after surveying the crowded space. “Come along.” He dropped his stuff next to a redheaded male dancer who was engrossed in his shoes.

“You know, you’d make your life easier if you actually attempted to use a locker.”

“And you’d save time not darning your shoes like an old maid.”

“I’m not _darning_ them. There’s no reason to give up precision for a few extra minutes of sleep.” He looked up. “Is that the new girl?” 

“Rey, this is Hux. Robot, this is the freshmeat.”

“You’ve already given her a rude name? I thought you reserved those for the girls you fuck, but this one is out of your league.”

Kylo turned green. “She’s guesting.”

“Oh, my mistake.” He stood and offered Rey his hand. “Armitage Hux, pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please insult the baboon in the corner, he’s no fun when his ego isn’t being torn to shreds.”

“I’m right here.”

Rey took his hand warily. “Rey. What part of England are you from?”

“Surrey. Yourself? You sound a little northern.” 

“Northumberland.” 

“I thought I heard a bit of a Scottish twang. If you don't mind me asking, how did you end up in the states?” 

“Okay, tea party’s over, ladies. She needs to get warmed up still.” Kylo wedged himself between them and waited for Rey to sit before he started to put his shoes on.

“Why did you call him Robot?” she asked as she pulled on her leg warmers. It was chilly in the huge studio.

“Hazing nickname, we all get one. You will too if you stick around here long enough.”

She looked over at Kylo's shoulder to catch Hux's attention. “What's his nickname?”

“Dumbo, since he can't talk in front of interviewers and has elephant ears.”

“They are _not_ elephant ears.”

“If they were any bigger, you might be able to catch a breeze and fly away.”

Rey couldn't help but giggle as the two squabbled like schoolboys, hurling insults left and right. “How long have you two been friends?”

“We aren’t friends.”

“Five years.”

Kylo gave Hux a look. “Are you sure about that?”

“Maybe four? I did have plans to gut you like a fish when we first met.”

“I meant are you sure about the friends part, not how long you've tolerated me.” 

“Well, if we're not friends, I guess that means I can move the television back into my room.”

“Then neither of us can use the PlayStation.”

 Hux looked nonplussed. “Bummer.”

The studio fell into silence at the tapping of a cane. Aloysius Snoke, artistic director and senior ballet master of the Imperial Ballet entered slowly, movement ceasing as he passed by. He was tall, wizened, and mostly bald. He walked with a slight limp and had a perfectly manicured white Van Dyke style goatee. Rey shivered when his eyes landed on her.

Their morning class was more rigorous than Skywalker's. Snoke did most of the instructing from the center of the room the few sounds in the studio his deep baritone, the piano accompaniment, and shoes softly hitting the floor. They went through basic steps over and over, each one repeated until he was satisfied every dancer was performing the movements correctly.

Everything ached by the time the torture was over. Even in flats, her feet were killing her. She'd been given an extremely sharp, terse warning about uniformity of motion. She'd likely be practicing in Freeds for days before Snoke would be marginally satisfied with her footwork.

The members of the company in the new ballet gathered on the main stage for a debriefing. She wasn't sure of the name, nor the part she would be dancing. Everything around here seemed to be on a need to know basis, and she wasn't in on the gossip.

“I'm sure some of you already know what I'll be telling you today, as lips in our company tend to be loose. It's lucky I run a ballet and not a cruise liner.” Snoke took a quick look around from his position downstage. “This show we'll be performing is an old one, and not from our Balanchine repertoire. _The Pharaoh's Daughter_ from Petipa is the basis, and just as showy as his _Don Quixote_. I've taken liberties with the story and choreography, changing what I see fit.”

Rey hadn't heard of this ballet before. If it was Petipa, it was older and not commonly danced. Why pick this one?

“I want to present a ballet with historical accuracy, which Petipa’s does not. Instead of following a made-up cast, the central female character will be Sobekneferu, daughter of Amenemhet III and later the last Pharaoh of Egypt's twelfth dynasty, portrayed in the opening cast of course by our guest, Rey Hywel.”

Rey shifted uncomfortably as curious eyes turned to look at her.

“Kylo will lead us as Cast A's Samont, Vizier to Amenemhet and secret lover of Sobekneferu. It is implied the spirit of Sir William Petrie, the excavator of her tomb, is one in the same with Samont. Armitage, you will double the role for Cast B."

Beside Rey, Hux swore. “I'm going to have to carry him, aren't I.”

“Though it has classical roots, we'll be adding our regular flair to the choreography and costuming. In the regular style, we will have a base to work with and I expect you all to add to it when instructed. I reserve rights to change what does not fit. If the corps could please remain on stage. The rest of you will be broken into groups for today's scenes.” 

Rey was with grouped with Kylo alone for some secluded temple scene. It wasn't an extremely flashy pas de deux, but some of the pointework looked complex. He gave his instructions a once over and groaned before almost vanishing in the bustle of people. 

“What's with these directions? It's just a list of terminology.”

“Snoke has a peculiar way of choreographing a ballet. Much of the foundation is built by the principal’s vision; how they feel about their character, the emotions they wish to evoke through the dance, any quirks or additional styles they want to add. Snoke gives a list of the movements he wants included in a scene and an example from something in our repertoire that looks similar to what he's expecting. After that, we build the scene, he makes corrections, and we finalize the choreography.”

“That seems…sloppy.”

“It can be with bad dancers. Luckily we only hire the best here.” He unlocked a door and ushered her into Imperial’s attached feeder school. “There are always empty studios here.”

This building was just as lavish as the main theater, the floors tile and the ceilings high. It looked like something out of a French palace, not a ballet school in the middle of Manhattan. Rey was both awed by the architecture and jealous of the students. She'd practiced in dingy underfunded studios with poorly maintained floors and ever-dirty mirrors. Being accepted into Skywalker had been like being bumped from economy to first class on a flight. Imperial in comparison was a private jet.

They walked by rooms full of younger children doing barre work and older girls on pointe. Each class seemed to have impeccable form and moved in unity, all of them together as a unit. This is what she was dancing with, the best of the best to graduate from here. She'd worked hard to get where she was, but she wasn't as good as these kids, not even close.

Kylo led her to a room on the fourth floor. It was in the back of the building, sharing its hallway with a janitorial closet and two bathrooms. It was small, a space not used for regular classes, and its lack of visitors showed in the pristine condition of the room.

“No more Gaynors at this point, got it? Use the new shoes, as you won't be dancing in anything else for a few months.”

Nodding, she sat to put on the new Freeds. She bent them back and forth before slipping them on. The toe boxes still felt too hard, maybe she should— 

“What in the world are you doing?” 

“Cushioning my toes?”

“Right. So you're stuffing silicone instead of lambswool into your new, completely not broken in shoes.” 

She looked between her feet and his dumbfounded expression. She was fucking something up. “…Yes?” 

“Did my mother teach you absolutely nothing? Give me those, or you're going to look and sound like a rhinoceros.”

He took the shoes from her, walked to the door, and _slammed_ it on the shank.

“What the hell?!”

“You need to break them, these aren't your tasteless Gaynor abominations.”

“You just smashed a hundred dollars worth of—”

“Relax, Jesus.” He inspected both shoes before dropping them on the floor and stepping on the toe boxes. Rey felt her bank account cry out in horror. “We don't pay for shoes, you know that right? Stop making that face.”

“You ruined them.”

“I fixed them. Try them out, this should at least get you started.”

Skeptically, she put them on. They weren't as comfortable as her old shoes, but they were better than the first try. “I can feel the floor.”

“You're supposed to. Can you get on pointe?”

“Of course I can, why wouldn't I—”

Oh.

No, she couldn't.

Rey nearly fell flat on her face. She wasn't an idiot, she'd certainly wasted more hours of her life en pointe than she'd like to admit, but she…she couldn't get up.

“I was afraid you wouldn't be able to get over the box. Your cheater shoes have been doing all the work for you. Take them off again.”

With a sigh, Rey finagled her torture devices off and shoved them back at Kylo, unimpressed with Freeds. He took them back and produced a box cutter from his bag. She cringed when he took a quarter off the shanks.

“Do you always make such attractive faces?”

“I also do a good ogre impression.”

That got the first smirk she'd seen on Kylo Ren.

He did something more involving the boxes and glue, tuning out her questions until he'd finished his chore. When she put them on this time, she could bounce onto pointe. She was supposed to be rolling through, if his face were any indication. That's fine, she was just happy she hadn't completely ruined something with her Gaynors.

“One last thing. You don't have to take them off yet, just sit on the floor and give me a foot.”

She did as she was told, stretching one leg out in front of her. He fetched a soft tape measure, a spool of thread, and a pin cushion from his bottomless bag and sat cross-legged in front of her. He laid her foot in his lap and began to take measurements. Muttering to himself, he took the satin from her foot and began to sew.

“You don't want the heel to bag. We can send this pair into Freed for a special order when we're finished today, and I'll make sure you have another pair ready for tomorrow.”

Rey was silent while she watched him work, until something bugged her enough to speak. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Everyone deserves a little kindness when they're starting something new.”

She snorted. “That's a load of horseshit.”

“I felt like it. Also, if you look bad, I look bad.”

That sounded more like Kylo, but the harshness she'd come to expect from him wasn't there. “How did you learn so much about pointe shoes?”

“My mother gave me spending money to help break them in for her younger students when I was home for summers.” He snipped a final thread. “Done. Are you ready to try them out? We have a scene to plan.”

* * *

“What do you think of the girl?” Phasma asked as she and Hux left the studio for lunch. Well, it wasn't quite lunch if all Armitage did was suck down coffee and look paranoid, but it was close enough.

“With her name I thought she'd be Welsh, but she's English. From really far north too—”

“Midge, what do you _think_ of her, not what prying information did you learn.”

He always softened when she used that nickname. “She's cheery. I don't think the prince of moping can drag her down. Quick to insult Kylo, always a plus for any dancers stuck working with him.”

“So betting against her isn't a good idea?”

“I don't think so. They have good stage chemistry, and either that will bleed into their personal lives, or their dislike of each other will crop up on stage, but I don't think that's likely.”

Phasma held the door of the coffee shop open for Armitage, telling herself it wasn't to catch a glimpse of his ass. “Why don't you think that's likely?”

“He's been acting differently. Still abrasive as ever, but more lost in his head. I don't think it's her, but I think his lack of attention will help their partnership in the long run.”

“The final question, will she survive Snoke?”

“I have no idea. Don't put any money into that pool until I see her dance. Did you want anything?”

“You bought last time.”

“Well, I'm offering again.”  

“Get me whatever you're ordering, I trust your judgement.”

She was gifted a rare smile, lasting only a moment. “That's a good answer.”

* * *

_April 14, 1984_

_Star principal of the Imperial Ballet, Leia Organa-Skywalker, made a violent departure from her home company last Friday. Along with her brother, Luke Skywalker, she has been performing Imperial since she was fifteen, the twins two of the youngest members to join full time._

_Miss Organa has not publicly stated her reasons for leaving, but it was confirmed she had a rather heated argument with the company's artistic director, Aloysius Snoke, who also served as ballet master in chief when her father, Anakin Skywalker, danced for Imperial. There is speculation her leaving has something to do with her late father's death, but Miss Organa has declined to comment._

_While Luke has not made it known whether he will stay with Imperial, it is the general assumption he will follow her, as the two have been inseparable since the start of their careers. The hope is that both will continue to dance, as it would be an extreme blow to the ballet world to lose two more Skywalkers to unfortunate, preventable circumstances._

_Leia Organa-Skywalker, artistic director of the newly established Skywalker Ballet Theater, as Kitri in_ Don Quixote _, 1987_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm so happy you've been enjoying our fic!
> 
> Thank you for all your support! It means a lot to both of us<3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a little retcon (really not much, it's like two lines), so just a heads up!
> 
> Hi, sorry, life happened for both of us. We've done way too much planning in our off-season and will be striving for regular updates again.
> 
> hi i yell incoherently at tearoomsaloon about ballet and she processes it into this  
> everything is beautiful at the ballet, support your local ballet company!  
> also i'm mako_pls on twitter

 

The small amity that had existed as he fixed her shoes dissolved the second they began choreographing. His tone was curt, directing her one way and the other. When she asked why he wasn't dancing as well, he had taunted _I don't need the practice_.

Asshole.

She went through an hour of chastising before being allowed a short reprieve. The lift they had been given was far more technical than she was used to dancing, and the fact that she couldn't roll through onto pointe was earning her both bruises and sharp remarks.

“Fish dives?” she muttered as she scrutinized her sheet. “I'm not doing fish dives.”

“We can't drop anything, only add to it. That's the easiest lift on the list.”

“I really don't trust you enough.”

He glanced down the sheet. “But you trust me enough to press you one-handed?”

“I trust you to hold me, not to catch me.”

“I knew this was going to be a headache. Do you want to do trust falls then, _princess?_ Or can we look at this like adults?”

“We haven't even talked about the tone we're supposed to set in this scene.”

“There's no point to that until you prove you can dance the basics of it.”

With a groan, she stood and put her hands on her hips. “What are we doing, then?”

“ _You_ are going to do the whole thing over again. _I_ am going to go rehearse for the other ridiculous classical roles I'm being forced into.”

“So I'm supposed to do a pas de deux by myself?”

He shouldered his bag with a shrug. “Not like we've been doing any lifts. Nothing you can't handle, right Superstar?”

She watched him leave, too dumbfounded to scream, or return an ego-deflating insult. Instead she was left in between mirrors of her lost reflection. Slinking to the floor, she began to unfasten the ribbons on her shoes, shoving then roughly into her worn nylon bag. Sneakers on, she exited into the grand hallway of the feeder school, unsure of how to get back to the main building. She'd be damned if she were going to practice some unknown role for a rival company, alone, after her partner had stormed out. Screw him. And screw this.

Rey managed to wander down a single corridor before coming across a familiar face. An eyebrow cocked into an orange fringe, he frowned. “Where's your shadow?”

“He didn't summon you?”

Hux scoffed. “I'm not a genie.”

“Kylo rage quit about ten minutes ago, said I should practice on my own.”

“For partnering?” Hux rolled his eyes and muttered something like _fucking idiot_ under his breath. “Well, come on, not like I've got anything better to do. What room were you in?”

“One of the classrooms in the back.” She hustled to keep up behind his long gait. “Is your cast doing the same steps?”

“Yes, and I'm not following his lead; Kylo isn't the best at improvising classical movements. I'd be correct to assume you haven't planned much?”

She nodded, frustrated. “Haven't even danced together for it.”

“Really? That's worse than I was expecting.” Hux opened a studio door and followed her in. “Shoes back on, we have work to do.”

Rey sat down gracelessly and stopped. “Actually, I'm having a lot of issues with the new shoes.”

“And think it would be better to learn the steps without an added complication?”

“If that's okay? Kylo wasn't thrilled with the idea.”

“He's rarely thrilled with anything. Slippers are fine, but you'll have to get used to the new shoes soon.”

Hux was a much more patient instructor. He was still a giraffe, but more aware of his height than Kylo, making sure to follow her stride length. They walked through the pas de deux first, him giving pointers to keep with the Balanchine style so favored by Imperial.

_Arms up, it's all about grace, not acting. Trust your technical training, everything else comes after, and if you're not sure, ask. You should be ready to leap at any moment, like a cat, agile and quick, almost soundless. Weight on the balls of your feet, chest out—that's better._

“You have a knack for patience,” she told him as they swept silently across the floor.

Hux stopped their advance to laugh until his face matched his hair. “You'll find I have the exact opposite temperament. I don't think I've been called patient in years.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, steps still slow, still cautious. Round and round, repeating each section until it was polished. The tone of the music for this scene was soft and hesitant, played on the backs of quivering strings. He was handsome in a sharp way, a contrast to the dance. Firm, resolute, unwavering.

“I teach.”

Rey was dragged out of a building moment. “Pardon?”

“The reason I'm patient with you is because I teach a number of the children's workshops. No amount of haste will inspire confidence in a six-year-old who’s struggling to turn out.”

“I didn't peg you as the type to like kids.”

He shrugged and pulled her closer. “No one does—lean into me a little more, that's better—and I'd like to keep it that way.”

They were poised so close together it was almost overwhelming. She could make out the gold-brown flecks in his blue irises, the freckles that looked like cinnamon dusted on a powder-white cake, the tint of umber in his eyebrows.

“There's a kiss here.”

Rey broke her trance and almost stumbled out of his grip. “There's a _what_?”

“A kiss. Obviously we're not going to block it, but you should know where in the dance it's supposed to come up.”

“I have to _kiss_ him?”

“Repulsive thought, isn't it? I don't envy you. It is a romantic ballet. Did you think you'd just high five and call it a night?”

“I didn't even know what it was until today!”

“Well, surprise, you get to experience true love’s first kiss from Prince Uptight.”

“I hope you're joking.”

“I hope so, too.”

 

Kylo showed up an hour later, disgruntled and on edge. Hux gave him a mock coy smile, breaking from conversation with Rey to approach the snarling animal.

“My dearest, darlingest roommate, while you were off being an absolute slug, I taught your partner your half of the dance. And since I choreographed your part,” he raised his arms to waltzing position, “it's your turn to be the girl.”

Kylo shot Rey the most fearsome glare she'd seen on a human and, with a meek goodbye to Hux, she slunk out the door.

It took ages to find her way back down and out of the feeder school. The tiled hallways blended together after a few minutes of wandering and she found herself absorbed in the ornate light fixtures and Rococo oil paintings. Fresh flowers sat on a squat Napoleon-era bureau between where the school met the front foyer. The smell of lavender and honeysuckles drifted lazily around her, recalling a memory of a young English spring, rainwater and damp earth sure to follow.

This was overwhelming. Her senses were overloaded by the richness of her surroundings. Every small detail from the gold leaf moldings to the crystal chandeliers reminded her of how out of place she was, a pewter ring among the Sterling.

Every classroom she passed was full of dancers. From five year olds to teenagers, they were graceful in their techniques, nearly identical. Finding herself outside a room of the oldest girls, she was overcome with a wave of inadequacy. She'd never seen Imperial dance before. Sure, these girls were just students, but they kicked the socks off Skywalker's corps. Shit, they were better than she was.

Her head was spinning.

It was a mad dash outside. She descended the stairs in twos and nearly sprinted back across the skyway. Throwing her weight against a heavy door, she was finally on the street. Crisp autumn wind slithered beneath the thin wool of her coat, smarting like a slap on her bare cheeks. Rey sucked in a breath like icicles down her throat.

It was a goddamn beautiful day outside the theater house of horrors.

She started walking before deciding where to go. A cafe? That was money, and besides she felt a little nauseous. Back inside? No, not yet, she needed time to calm down. Home?

Rey pushed the door to Luke's office open without knocking. Her nose had started to run and she wiped it with the back of her coat sleeve, coarse wool scratching at her lip. She should say something, probably.

Luke glanced at the clock and back to his disheveled, nearly-in-tears dancer. “It's not even one.”

“I can't do it.” She dropped her bag on one of the chairs in front of his desk and slumped down in the other. “They're all nuts and rich, I stick out like a…a…”

“Like a straw of hay in a needle stack?”

“Yes! Thank you! Like a—no, no that's not what I was thinking of.”

“Picture it this way. You're soft, harmless, and about as intimidating as a stuffed bear.”

“I'm intimidating.”

“We mocked your ‘angry face’ for an entire season.”

She crossed her arms and glared.

“You're lost in a different company made of sharks and they'll smell the fear on you. You ran out on day one, Rey.”

“No one saw me.”

“You think they won't figure it out?” He sighed and closed his ledger. “Where are you supposed to be right now?”

“I have no idea.”

“You're off to a great start.”

“Your nephew isn't making it easy, okay? I don't know anyone else there and he won't tell me shit. I don't know where the hell I'm supposed to be, or at what time, or how to get there, and he just storms out without a word. He's about as useful as a bent nail.”

Luke nodded. “He definitely takes after his mother.”

“Leia's not a bent nail.”

“No, but she's stubborn and doesn't take orders well. There's two ways to deal with pigheadedness. You either lay down and let them have their way because the headache isn't worth it, or you don't give them an inch.”

“Well, which do you suggest?”

“You have to figure out which is better for yourself.”

“You're not doing a very good job at mentoring.”

“Want to switch places? I don't think I'll look good in a tutu, but I'll give it a shot.”

Her phone buzzed before she could return his quip. The number wasn't one she recognized, but the text was definitely for her.

“Did someone notice?”

“I don't think so.” It was from Hux, asking if she had a moment to spare for coffee. “But I should head back before they do. Thanks for the kick in the ass.”

“You're welcome. Don't let them get to you.”

* * *

It was dark outside before his limbs ached too much to continue. The studio was as dim as a room could be in midtown, the lights off and the door closed. His reflection was nearly a shadow, cut only by the pallor of his skin and the white of his shirt. He'd overdone it again, dizzy, dehydrated. Maybe Hux was right, he had to eat something other than Cliff bars and the occasional protein shake.

Again.

He really couldn't take it. His lungs were killing him, toes probably bleeding, calves straining. But, Anakin Skywalker didn't get to where he was by quitting. Neither would Kylo.

It was harder to do this alone, without a partner for a partnered dance. He had to visualize her beside him, clumsy footwork and all. Better that he was alone; no way she'd have been able to keep up with him for this many hours, not without complaining about her shoes, or his tone, or the lifts.

The lecture he got from Snoke that afternoon pounded against the front of his skull. _You play nice, or I remove you from the roster. Do you understand me, Kylo? I will not repeat myself: do not misbehave again._ His fingers twitched at the memory, anger thick and sticky, like cherry cough syrup oozing in a measuring cup. Most of his rage was directed at himself. He'd been so calm fixing her shoes, then he'd turned into a monster. Again.

 _Again._ God, over and over until it was perfect. He'd lost privileges of being choreographed on to Hux thanks to his outburst. Leaning on Hux for classical parts wasn't unusual, but something about his roommate being the one to teach his partner boiled his blood.

 _You don't want to dance with her anyway_ , he reminded himself. Right, but it was still an insult.

“It wasn't my suggestion,” Hux said when he kicked their door closed. “I'd have been just as happy doing the basics and letting you take credit for it, but he insisted.”

Kylo stalked past him without a word.

“You can be as angry as you want but we still have to live together, so don't take it out on the furniture again.”

“What the _hell_ is he trying to gain?” He stopped at his door, hands on either side of the frame.

“The girl.”

Kylo's head whipped around, vertebrae cracking. “The girl who can't dance without cheater shoes.”

“Her technique needs work, but she has a lot of raw talent. And she got a glowing review from Holdo. You know he's after her.”

He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. But to go so far as to punish Kylo, publicly to the company, for the sake of poaching this two-bit wind up dancer meant there had to be something more under the already sinister surface.

“For what it's worth, I did try to decline.”

He let a breath out through his nose. Anger would get him nowhere. “Thank you.”

“She's really not that bad, all things considered.” Hux turned back to his laptop. “Give her a break; we all start somewhere.”

“Not everyone.”

“Fine, but we can't all be prodigies like your grandfather. Where did he start anyway? Some rich manor house just outside Warsaw?”

Kylo's eyes widened, gazing boring into his door. A tiny switch in his head clicked. “No. In the slums of Milan.”

 

It was days before he had to stand in the same room as Rey. Hux had been teaching both her and his cast's female principal at the same time, removing Kylo's sour temperament to prevent any more outbursts. Though frustrating, this arrangement was definitely the best for keeping his career. Hux would walk him through the choreography before he left work each night, giving Kylo a list of things to improve after watching him run through two or three times. Hux as an adult coach was cold, stern, and demanding, chastising him for any small missed movement or incorrect flick of his wrist.

Rey was waiting for him in one of the feeder school's open classrooms, sunlight dying beyond the windows. Streaks of orange burned down one side of her face and she seemed almost startled to see him.

“It has been so nice to not have to deal with you for a week.” She leaned against the barre and crossed her ankles. “Shame we can't avoid each other forever. I offered to switch with the other lead but she laughed in my face.”

He sighed, not facing her. “I'm sorry.”

“No you're not, you just don't want to get canned.” She'd picked up a new bite, an edge she'd been lacking. “Let's just get through this. You can go back to being a know-it-all asshole when we're done with the show.”

Tightening his jaw, Kylo bit back an insult and dropped to the floor to pull on his shoes. He had no desire to play this game. He'd play nice and leave. No talking, no reprimanding, no teaching. He could feel her eyes bore into him, her impatience and agitation stifling in the still softness of the room.

She had improved slightly, not that he'd say it to her face. Her movements were more confident, grander, less hesitant. She was still having issues dancing en pointe in the new shoes but, to her credit, she wasn't letting her frustration bleed into her limbs or expression. She made up for her mistakes by not faltering or stumbling to correct herself. It made her a good actor, but unfortunately ballet wasn't an act.

The dance slowed. He had one arm around her waist as she dipped back, one foot on the floor, one snaking around his torso. She slid her left hand up his chest, touch light and graceful. Her eyes were big, no longer full of their earlier malice. His free hand instinctively went to cover hers, she was close, she was way too close–

She wormed out of his grip and coughed, the spell broken. “So, yeah, that's the kiss.”

“I see Hux has been very attentive with blocking that.” His voice was full of unintentional bitterness. What was supposed to be a question came out as an accusation.

“Actually we haven't.” She disappeared into herself, sharpness lost. “That’s the first time I've done the snakey leg part.”

“The snakey leg part.”

“You know, the–” she shook the leg she had wrapped around him, “–leg part.”

Against his better judgment, Kylo laughed. “You never cease to amaze.” He held his hands up, signaling her to reposition.

The ballet had a mock ancient Egyptian style with Petipa's usual grandiose flare, but the pas de deux was soft, longing, and lacking in extravagant, flashy movement. Subtle. Kylo was used to small gestures but the minutiae of the facial expressions were more complex, stiff, unsure. Her features had relaxed from the earlier fierceness, but she avoided meeting his eyes. Not that he was trying to catch her glance either.

The scene ended with her fleeing offstage, but their rehearsal concluded with her head tucked under his chin, her short breath embers on his skin. He hadn't noticed how much time had past, how dark it had grown in the studio. They lingered a moment too long before breaking awkwardly apart. The loss of her heat sent a shiver inching down his spine.

“So,” she started, sitting down to take off her shoes, “how does that scene look when it's just you and Hux?”

“Extremely sexual.”

“Any chance I can observe? You know, for learning purposes.”

“Nope.” Kylo raked a hand through his damp hair. “One, the rumors about us being more than roommates already have enough fuel. Two, he doesn't dance your part very seriously with me.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I laugh, we have to start over.”

She chuckled and stood. “Sounds like he's a bit of a troll.”

“‘A bit’ doesn't begin to scratch the surface.”

“He's so different with everyone else.” She stopped at the door and turned. “Thanks for being more patient with me. Even if it's just because–”

“Don't mention it.” He offered her something like a smile and he swore she returned it before disappearing down the hall.  

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right bubs, I've gotten some comments and anons ranging from very polite to rude so I'm going to clarify:
> 
> I'm not going to write Hux out of the story. He plays a role, I'm not changing his characterization to fit the movies perfectly because that's terrible worldbuilding. You 100% are not obligated to like him. You are free to hate him, but I don't want to hear about it unless you're politely asking me to tag something or give a warning. Otherwise it's just complaining and, frankly, rude to both of us.
> 
> Hux and Rey are not going to get together. Hux and Kylo are not going to get together. The big fat ship tag at the top of this work is there for a reason.  
> Hux and Rey will be friends and if that's not your cup of tea, I'm not going to be offended if you stop reading here.
> 
> Thanks for coming to my TED talk and I hope you've enjoyed it this far.
> 
> Hi, this is Mako. I haven't said a lot on this fic but this time I feel the need to restate that @saloontime and I are a team-- we plot this story together, every twist and turn has been agreed on by both of us. For this AU, the art and the fic goes hand in hand, if there's no fic there will be no art and vice versa. We're not doing this without each other.  
> This AU was brought to you by our sheer love for the characters and their respective characterisations in this specific universe (and in my case, the ballet).  
> I'm really grateful to everyone for your support, thank you so much for joining us on this ride and I would be so happy if this AU inspires you to go to the ballet.  
> -mako


	7. Chapter 7

If there were such thing as a frowning competition, Kylo would win.

Ever since he'd stepped into the studio, he'd kept a painfully potent grimace etched onto his face, unmoving as a marble carving. She could understand being upset for being in class, or with the teacher (she was….odd, to say the least, a little too handsy), but this expression of pure hatred went beyond that. She almost asked him what was wrong. Almost. He gave her a searing, laser-pointed glare when she first turned to him and opened her mouth, so she shut up and made sure to avoid direct eye contact.

To make matters more confusing, this was pointe class.

“We had a good rehearsal yesterday, I have no idea what gives,” she lamented to Hux over coffee. “One second he's personable, the next he's hissing like a wet cat. I swear he's premenopausal or something.”

“If it makes you more comfortable, it's not you he's taking this attitude with, it's the rehearsal list that went out last night.” Hux stirred his third cup absently. “I honestly don't know how Snoke expected this to go, especially with how incisive of an insult of it is.”

“Rehearsal list?”

“For Midsummer Kylo's in pointe lessons, so–”

“He's the damn donkey.” Rey frowned. “Shouldn't he be Oberon or Lysander?”

“I'm Oberon. And I don't know if you're familiar with Kylo's family ties, but the grandfather he so idolizes made his last performance as Oberon. This is a clear stab in the back by our affable director.”

Rey was quiet a minute. “His grandfather was Anakin, right? I feel like I should have put that together by now.”

“You don't seem the type to have learned about the ballet greats. Talented as you may be, you're a little rough on the basics. Your education wasn't formal, was it?”

“Words you could use to describe it would be more along the lines of 'cheap’ or ‘vulgar’. I practiced wherever and with whomever, I wasn't picky.” She shrugged and leaned backwards. “So while the names of dancers are familiar to me, I wasn't taught about their careers.”

“For the sake of brevity, Anakin was one of the best danseurs to set foot on a stage. He died young and suddenly, causing a lot of theories about his demise. Kylo's been doing research on it for about a year now, but he doesn't like anyone to know. So our boy, wanting to be everything Anakin was, considers the role of Oberon to be his Grail.”

Rey sat back. “I'd be mad, too.”

 

It was hours before she made it home, tired and achy. She had pointe class again tomorrow morning with Kylo and the teacher who gave her weird vibes. Grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl, she made her way to Finn's room.

He was on his bed, laptop open, headphones on. He looked up quickly and pushed the left side off his ear. “Been having fun without us, deserter?”

Rey rolled her eyes and made herself comfortable on the floor. His room was just a tiny bit bigger than hers, but it was still a shoebox. His furnishings consisted of a nightstand, a hamper next to his closet door, and a rug that crept out from the edge of his bed. On the wall was an oil painting his grandmother had finished for his graduation from SAB, the colors bright, the style almost cubist. Beside it was a Yoruba mask that once belonged to his mother's grandfather.

“What are you watching?”

“Something Marcus recommended. It's terrible, if you were wondering.”

“Good terrible or bad terrible?”

“I dunno, haven't quite figured out if I'm enjoying cringing this much.” He closed the lid and shifted to see her better. “Are you sick of Imperial yet?”

“Sick of the speed at which they do everything. Go here, do that, you have ten minutes for lunch.”

“It was definitely a grind, yeah.”

“At least we've only got two weeks left before opening.”

“Didn't you just start rehearsing?”

“Please see related comment on speed.”

“Right, right.”

“So,” she started, raising an eyebrow. “What's the new gossip?”

“Poe's still milking his ankle—”

“Typical.”

“Paige is back in class. I think Leia's hesitant to let her start rehearsals for winter. Buuut,” Finn leaned in, “I think they got a little close when they were both sitting out, if you know what I mean.”

“Paige and _Poe?_ ”

“Okay, I didn't think it was that weird.”

“It's not; I lost fifty bucks.”

It took Finn a second but when he laughed, it was contagious. “Oh my God I forgot about that. I'm out fifty too. Do you think anyone remembers?”

“I hope not, I don't want to watch the stagehands smugly count their winnings. Anyway, speaking of stagehands…”

 

* * *

 

Kylo stood in Snoke's office, trying his best not to fume. He'd been sick with anger since the email went out last night. _Bottom_. He was cast as _Bottom_. The top billed principal in the company was the _goddamn donkey_.

“I think it's appropriate, don't you?” Snoke said, his back to Kylo. “Since you've spent the last week making an ass out of yourself.”

Kylo bit his tongue.

“Besides, the role you so desperately covet requires an emotional range you aren't capable of conveying—I don't need that look, you and I both know your talents fall flat when it comes to displaying anything more complex than rage.”

“I can quit.”

“You could, I suppose. I've heard Florida has nice weather this time of year if you can stand the crowds.” He stepped around his desk, cane tapping on the floor, movements like a coiled cougar ready to leap. “But you won't. Florida won't give you want you want. London won't give you what you want. Moscow, Boston, Paris. You could try Warsaw, or Milan, but I do doubt you'll find your answers there. It would be a pity if you were to give up so much for naught.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened, fingers digging in like raptor claws.

“So, what will it be, boy?”

The illusion of choice was a nice touch. “I'll stay.”

“Good, good.” Snoke circled back around to his desk and carefully sat. “We'll be performing _Prodigal Son_ again this winter—in a week, I believe—and I suppose I can spare you a bone.”

“What happened to the tour?”

“You are to be taken off that roster. Another year, maybe. You're dismissed, Kylo. Can't have you being late for rehearsal.”

 

“I think what unnerves me the most is how calm he always sounds.” Kylo and Hux were in the upper studio waiting for Rey, Karina, and Phasma. “He never raises his voice and it gives me the creeps.”

Hux paused in his stretch. “Now that you mention it, I don't think I've heard him yell before. What ended up happening?”

“We're doing _Prodigal Son,_ again, and I'll be the Son, _again_ , to no one's surprise. God I'm so sick of that ballet.”

“Who's taking Jenna's place as the Siren?”

“I am.” Phasma closed the studio door behind her. “It was my role before it was hers.”

“I have to ask, Greta, was it your choice to perform fewer times a year, or Snoke's?”

“Mine. It's hell on my hips and I don't mind being behind the scenes. Where are your ladies?”

Hux gave Kylo a glare before he had time to think of a joke about Phasma already being present. He shrugged instead.

“Are you both warned up at least? Midge, you're not dancing in leg warmers, are you? I need to see your line.”

“I was _going_ to,” Hux huffed as he pulled them off. “This studio isn't known for its insulation.”

Their partners had shown up by the time he'd stopped grumbling. Karina looked poised as ever, Rey seemed intimidated. This room was different when empty, the space cold and large. The sun almost fully set, there were no stray beams of light sneaking in through the slanted windows.  They were to be running through the first pas de deux with Phasma so she could be sure both casts were up to speed. After this, Kylo could hopefully go home and do something mindless to take the edge off his anger.

Danilova and Hux took to the center of the stage while Phasma prepared to take notes for her critique. Clipboard in hand and pen fidgeting between her fingers, she took this part of her job clinically. She would be comparing both of their dances to Snoke's original choreography of the scene, then break it down by tone, flow, lines, and pacing. She made a motion to the accompanist to begin and the demeanor of both Hux and Danilova changed in an instant.

He was a show off.

His Royal Ballet training bled through his footwork, his expressions well tailored to his movements. Karina was equally skilled, mirroring him perfectly. Initially trained at the Vaganova Academy, she had a certain lithe, powerful quality to how she carried herself. Her _port de bras_ was phenomenal, every muscle and tendon moved in harmony, like delicate keys under the fingers of a master pianist. Their fish dives were smooth, quick, and well-practiced. Hux didn't hold her in the overhead lift as long as he should have, but it looked good nonetheless.

Beside him, Kylo could sense Rey tense. She'd been working with both of them for the majority of the choreography, but she hadn't seen them dance it like a performance, apparently. She shifted uneasily, eyes wide. He could recall the same feeling of inferiority from when he was a student still sanding down his rough edges. Watching masters dance was intimidating to clumsy beginners wondering if they'd ever achieve that same overwhelming air of poise and grace.

Most didn't.

The piano stopped smoothly at the end of the scene, emotions hanging softly in the air, dissipating like steam. Phasma looked expectantly in his direction once she dismissed Hux and Danilova, having given them minimal notes. He approached the middle of the studio quickly and Rey followed on nervous legs.

“It's not a competition,” he bit under his breath. “Stop fidgeting and focus.”

“I am focused.”

“You really don't look it.”

This was worse than before. Her head was getting to her, self-consciousness leaking out of her steps, her eyes, her understated motions. It was like she'd gone from a lion to a kitten, meek and feeble and helpless. When it was just them the other night, it was fine, but she seemed to choke up the moment another person stepped in to watch.

“Stop.”

The music came to an abrupt halt and Phasma approached, mouth twisted into a frown. “Kylo, you're fine. You can't screw your face up like you've been chewing on a lemon, but the steps are fine.” She turned to Rey. “You and I need to work on everything. Especially nerves. I know you can dance this, I've seen it, but Snoke will mount your head like a hunting trophy if you perform like that in a dress rehearsal.”

She and Rey exchanged numbers while he gathered his things. The door to the studio opened and shut before he could pull joggers back on. He could have sworn they'd both left until two pink satin shoes stopped at the edge of his vision. “Yes?”

“Can you help me? Please?”

Oh, no, no he wasn't good with waterworks. “I can't say anything that will magically remove your stage fright.”

“It's not stage fright.” Her voice wavered, but she stood firm. “It's like… How do you _do_ this? How do you all make this so effortless?”

“Practice.” He stood and tried to avoid her reddening eyes. “And a lot of falling. You were fine for _Firebird_. You were also fine two days ago. You know the part, it's just—”

“Anxiety.”

“I'm not the best person to ask about that,” he said slowly. The ache in his knee was a blatant contradictory reminder, but she didn't need to know about that. He didn't want to have a heart to heart about _that_. “I know Hux is on some kind of anti-anxiety—”

“Have you seen how fast that guy slams back coffee? He's the last person I want to talk to about mental health habits.”

“Fair, but he's still—”

“No. You have the biggest ego, you're the one who's most accomplished at ignoring self-doubt.”

 _Jesus_. All right. “I'm not dancing for anyone but myself. Not the critics, not the audience, not Snoke. Just me. And I don't care how I measure to other dancers. You got intimidated the second Danilova started.”

“She's really good.”

“And? Hux is better than I am at classical because he's trained for it. He's always going to be better because I can't bring myself to care enough about the style to put in the same amount of work he has. Danilova is better than you are, but what were you expecting? She's older than you, she trained somewhere more rigorous than you. Unless you were some kind of genius—”

“Aren't you?”

Kylo's rant deflated. “No, I'm not.” Snoke's lashing fresh in his mind, he found himself opening up rather unwillingly. “This doesn't come naturally to me. I want it to, but it doesn't. I make mistakes. I've fallen and been unable to finish a performance.” He sighed and pulled his leggings up past the scars. Three little incisions, two thin and pale, one still mauve.

Rey studied his knee, eyes focused. She brought her arm up. “I broke my elbow climbing a tree when I was seven.” Her scar was faint, a single straight white line. “ACL?”

He nodded. “I was eighteen, stupid, and thought I was immortal. It was in the middle of _Le Corsaire_ on the opening night. Went right down, didn't get back up.” He rolled the leggings back down. “So I'm not perfect either. Danilova's not perfect. No one is. If you fuck up, make a mistake, do the wrong thing, make it look like you'd meant to from the beginning.”

She was still hovering. “Would you...mind running it through with me again tonight? Just once.”

He stopped putting on his boots and groaned. Something about her pleading puppy face made it hard to leave. “Fine. Just once.”

 

He was barely awake in class the next morning. Just once had turned into three times. At least she was getting better.

“Kylo, stop marking.”

With an exaggerated sigh, he apologized to Snoke. Turning back to the mirrors, he met Rey's eyes in the reflection. She held her hand up to hide a laugh. He didn't manage to stop a quick, fleeting smile.

 

* * *

 

Hux cornered her on her way out Friday. It was late, she was tired. His face was welcome usually, but not now. Not when she wanted to catch a train. “What?”

“We're going to see _Prodigal Son_ tonight.”

She frowned. Like a _date_? As much as she… “I really want to go sleep.”

“It's not a very long ballet and it's the first in the program. I won't snitch if you leave after it.”

“I don't think I have opera glasses in this bag.”

Hux gave her a weird look and laughed. “I have orchestra tickets. Perks of being an employee. Come on, this is his best role, I feel like you really should see it.”

Right, Kylo was in this one. She still hadn't seen him perform. “If I say no—”

“I'll make you come tomorrow.”

She’d never sat orchestra before. Fine. Ugh.

Rey followed Hux back into Imperial's staff corridor, chucking her stuff in a locker to be retrieved later. She was in street clothes, her winter coat covering up a large knotted t-shirt and ratty jeans. Hux was in slim black slacks and a well-tailored button down, a blazer tucked around his arm. _Great, Rey, first time in orchestra and you're put together worse than Kylo._ And, of course, she was next to the immaculately dressed Hux. She was convinced he didn't own a single thing that hadn't been specially made or tailored. Kylo had mentioned something about his father coming from staggering amounts of money, but that the two don't talk. Or, at least, Hux refused to talk.

The seats in the theater were as plush as they looked. She kept her coat on as long as she possibly could before the heat got to her. Awkward. So awkward. Why did she always look so out of place in this building?

“You don't look that ridiculous.”

“I look like I stole this shirt out of a rubbish bin.”

Hux pulled his lips into a tight line and nodded. “Okay, yeah. I apologize for springing this on you, but I thought you might like to come.”

“I appreciate it.” She looked over at him. “I mean it.”

“Good.” His smile was warm, soft. She didn't have much time to return it before the pit began to tune, voices in the auditorium falling away as the strings swelled, woodwinds following.

Kylo wasn't the first dancer on stage, but he was the only one her eyes followed. She'd never seen him perform before. _How_ had she never seen him perform before? Didn't he just give her a rant about how he wasn't perfect?

What the _fuck_.

His line could have been cleaner if it weren't for the shape of his quads and the breadth of his chest but, Christ, it was pretty damn good. Spontaneous, graceful, sure-footed. If he hadn't mentioned it, she wouldn't have known he had an old injury. He seemed lighter in his jumps than he had been with her last night. Kylo was a fucking liar; he danced for the audience.

Phasma's entrance found Rey finally tearing her quickly-angering gaze away from Kylo. She had never once seen Phasma dance, but she wasn't expecting this. Wasn't expecting one of the tallest female principals she'd seen to have the control and meticulous finesse of a hummingbird. Her cherry-ember leotard contrasted beautifully with pale skin, pale hair, and pale tights. Serpentine and sly, the Siren approached. Kylo was tall but en pointe, Phasma loomed. Her seduction was potent, risqué, hypnotic. The way their bodies came together, always touching, made chills run down her spine. Like she wanted it. Wanted that raw, base intimacy.

Phasma's expression never waiver from one of absolute dominance. Kylo, though…He was awed. For once he didn't look like he'd accidentally taken a bite out of a bar of soap. He followed the Siren with lidded eyes and a heady breathlessness. Even as she climbed on him, standing on his knees, balancing on his head, the Prodigal Son never once saw through her manipulative act. Never looked at her with a thought aside from lust.

They stripped him. The Siren and the goons stole everything from the Son, removing his clothes, leaving him almost bare. He was so built and it made her _so_ angry. He was a phenomenal dancer, his hair was beautiful, and he was toned and huge. How dare he, how fucking dare he—

Fucking Christ. God. Is this how his weird fan club acted? Terrible Rey, freaking terrible. Stop.

Goddammit she was so mad.

She stayed angry through the rest of the ballet, not sure what was causing such a violent surge of unnamed, unrecognizable emotions. She tried to figure it out when the cast came out for bows and she swore their eyes met for a brief, rage-fueled second. Her whole way home, the feeling remained, eating at her, taunting her. It wasn't until she was dead sleep did it slowly give way to another bubble of emotion.

In a ruby leotard, she was the Siren, seductive and sensual. His head rested upon her chest as she curved backwards, her palms pressed to his cheeks. When she righted herself, her forehead stayed close to his, breath warm on vulnerable skin. She could almost kiss him.

Almost.

 

* * *

[https://tarkinstea.typepad.com/tarkins_tea/](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ)

**Tarkin's Tea**

****

19 November 2018

**Observations 19/11**

The Imperial Ballet's Artistic Director, **Aloysius Snoke** , has once again deemed it necessary to meddle with perfection. Today's newest offense comes from his decision to pilfer from Ashton’s _The Dream_ to incorporate pointework for Bottom in Balanchine's _A Midsummer Night's Dream._  Now that rubbish sentence is out of the way, I am relieved to finally see some sensible casting at Imperial. It's only taken 40 years.

I am ecstatic to have been able to see the ever-elegant **Armitage Hux** in the role of Oberon this Saturday night. Hux, who previously trained at White Lodge prior to completing at SAB, brings the quick footwork and crisp technique characteristic of Royal Ballet dancers to Balanchine. With only the cleanest of lines, his precision and speed make for an unmatchable allegro. The authority of his stage presence is captivating, truly, and both his variations and partnering leave little to be desired.  I've seen many a dancer in my time, yet I still find myself impressed by his arabesque, from the balancing all the way down to the perfect articulation of the foot. I am extremely appreciative that he is constantly on his A game, something that unfortunately cannot be said about all male principals in the company. Speaking of...

I have...enjoyed? **Kylo Ren** ’s dancing as Bottom? This is a rare occasion, as he almost never seems to comprehend the implications a paying audience should have on his dance. Rarely, so rarely, a spark ignites in his otherwise empty head and forces him to perform an almost perfect display of footwork and technique that could _almost_ rival the pyrotechnics of his overhyped grandfather. That feels overly generous; perhaps I'll have to take it back with his next performance.  
  
This week’s **T.T. Tea Time Award** is the Earl Grey blend from Harney  & Sons, a perfect medley of England meets America, bestowed upon Armitage Hux, for his aristocratic portrayal of Oberon, the King of Fairies.  We cannot wait to see him in Snoke’s restaging of _The Pharoah’s Daughter_   next week.

Posted on 19 November 2018 at 07:21 AM in Imperial Ballet | Permalink | Comments (3)

** Email Tarkin **

Great review as always, Tarkin!  Bravo to Hux, he was a delight to watch.  Did you see those entrechats? I'm fairly sure he did eight instead of six. Amazing! So glad to see less of Kylo in this week's casting too.

Posted by: lolfouettefail | 19 November 2019 at 09:50 AM

Hi Tarkin,

I was going to cancel my subscription but now I'm reconsidering...  Although putting Bottom on pointe is sacrilege, who does Snoke think he is to mess with Balanchine's work?!?!  Not to mention he keeps pandering to the irrelevent Holdo, is there seriously anyone who still reads the biased New York Times?  We need a new AD, stat!

Posted by: Carrie | 19 November 2019 at 12:34 PM

hux is soooo sweet too we were waiting by the stagedoor and he signed the programs for my kids lol! love kylo too hes so hot lol but he never comes out to talk to fans xx

Posted by: dancemomof2 | 19 November 2019 at 2:58 PM

* * *

   
Imperial Ballet's Armitage Hux as Oberon in  _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

 (have YOU seen his entrechats?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, Hux absolutely _despises_ Tarkin.
> 
> John mentioned in an interview that his father was Yoruba (couldn't find anything on his mom), so I carried that little detail over to Finn.
> 
>  _Prodigal Son_ is a ballet set to Prokofiev's suite of the same name and choreographed by George Balanchine for the Ballets Russes. Prokofiev conducted on the night of the premiere and was upset and appalled by how lewd and promiscuous the Siren was, nearly a polar opposite from his demure vision for the character.
> 
> does anyone know which blog tarkin's tea is based off of???? c'mon guys  
> also the entirety _prodigal son_ with misha and karin von aroldingen (!!!) is on youtube, give it a watch if you have time  
>  -mako
> 
> **the tarkin is traced because it's a stupid joke @tearoomsaloon insisted on gah  
> (I demanded a meme and threatened to photoshop his head on Kermit the Frog so thank Mako for not having to witness that with your own two eyes)


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